••" 


,  ,\ 


•UCSB  LIBRARY 


; HATED      BY    J    G    CHAPMAN. 


PURE   GIFT  FOR  THE  HOLY  DAYS. 

EDITED    BY 

N.     P.     WILLIS. 

WITH  NINE    ILLUSTRATIONS, 
BY  J.   G.   CHAPMAN. 


N.E  W- Y  O  R  K: 
JOHN   C.    RIKER    15  ANN    STREET. 

1844. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress, 

Bv  JOHN  C.  RIKER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  Stales,  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New-York. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

C.  Skcrman,  Printtr,  19  St.  Janus  Street. 


PREFACE. 


IN  addressing  an  Annual  to  the  taste  of  the  religious  and 
moral  classes  of  society,  the  publisher  of  The  Opal  haa  two 
views  to  which  his  success  will  probably  be  referrible.  He  has 
thought  it  singular,  in  reflecting  upon  the  manifest  aim  of  ele- 
gant literature,  that  so  little  of  it  should  be  expressly  adapted  to 
a  class  so  much  the  largest  and  most  respectable.  The  serious 
and  thinking  portion  of  this  populous  country,  it  is  a  matter  of 
patriotic  congratulation  to  be  able  to  say,  is  by  much  the  most 
numerous  as  well  as  the  most  refined ;  and,  so  high  is  the  moral 
tone  in  society  generally,  that  those  who  are  not  numbered 
among  religious  people,  still  desire,  for  their  own  reading,  and 
that  of  their  friends  and  families,  books  which,  to  say  the  least, 
can  never  offend  the  taste  of  the  most  scrupulous.  It  is  in  this 
class  that  the  household  affections  are  warmest,  and  that  fitting 
tokens  of  remembrance  and  friendship  are  most  looked  for,  at 
the  season  of  the  year  consecrated  to  cheerfulness  and  good 
feeling,  by  the  anniversary  of  the  Saviour's  birlh.  That  there 
was  no  Annual,  suited  to  this  class  and  this  particular  want, 
published  in  this  great  metropolis,  seemed,  to  the  publisher  of 
this  work,  a  void  to  be  filled. 

Another  deficiency  appeared  to  him  quite  as  obvious.  Be- 
tween the  literature  prepared  for  the  religious  classes  and  that 
devoted  to  the  vitiated  and  worldly,  there  seemed  a  deficiency 
which  savoured  of  an  uncharitable,  and  perhaps  fanatical,  exclu- 
sion of  taste  and  elegance.  Religious  books,  devoted  solely  to 
the  inculcation  of  the  precepts  of  piety,  are  all  important  as 


VI  PREFACE. 

one  branch  of  instruction  and  reading.  But  God,  who  made  all 
things  for  his  creatures,  and  gave  them  taste,  fancy,  and  a  sense 
exquisitely  alive  to  the  beautiful,  intended  no  ascetic  privation 
of  the  innocent  objects  which  minister  to  these  faculties.  The 
mirth,  and  the  playful  elegancies  of  poetry  and  descriptive  wri- 
ting, are  as  truly  within  the  paths  of  religious  reading  as  any 
thing  else  which  shows  the  fullness  and  variety  of  the  provision 
made  for  our  happiness,  when  at  peace  with  ourselves.  Nothing 
gay,  if  innocent,  is  out  of  place  in  an  Annual  intended  to  be 
used  as  a  tribute  of  affection  by  the  good.  And  in  this  book, 
hereafter,  that  view  will  be  kept  before  the  eye.  Its  contents 
will  be  opal-hued — reflecting  all  the  bright  lights  and  colours 
which  the  prodigality  of  God's  open  hand  has  poured  upon  the 
pathway  of  life.  The  OPAL,  as  expressing  this — the  chameleon 
of  gems — varied  as  the  rainbow,  and  shifting  with  every  trem- 
bling of  light  into  some  new  tint  of  beauty — shall  be  its  name 
The  Editor  whose  name  is  on  the  title-page,  has  assumed  his 
office  as  this  first  volume  is  going  to  press.  In  the  future  num- 
bers of  die  work,  he  trusts  by  diligent  care  and  effort  to  com- 
mend it  to  the  approbation  of  the  refined  and  good. 

N.  P.  WILLIS. 


CONTENTS. 

Preface 5 

Scriptural  Prophecy  and  its  Sym- 
bols      REV.  GEORGE  BUSH,  D.  D 13 

A  Thought  over  a  Cradle N.  p.  WILLIS 23 

Children JAMES  ALDRICH 24 

The  Student ERNEST  HELFENSTEIN 25 

Ruth  and  Naomi RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE   ....  31 

The  Sabbath  of  the  Year 32 

The  Jesuit AUTHOR  OF  "HENRI  QUATRE"  .  34 

The  Dream  of  the  Consumptive  .  MRS.  SARAH  J.  HALE 02 

Religious  Biography w.  A.  JONES 64 

To  a  Reverend  Friend CORNELIUS  MATTHEWS 74 

Prayer  and  Praise WILLIAM  H.  BURLEIGH 75 

God  will  appoint  a  Deliverer .  .  .  MRS.  SEBA  SMITH 80 

Christ  by  the  well  of  Sychar  .  .  .  REV.  GEORGE  w.  EETHUNE,D.  D.  10G 

Thoughts REV.  HERMAN  HOOKER 108 

Is  Death  the  King  of  Terrors  .  .      REV.  GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER,  D.  D.  119 

Sleep ROBERT  MORRIS 120 

The  Triumph  of  Christianity  .  .  .  AUTHOR  OF  "  CROMWELL"  ETC.  121 

The  Mill MISS  MART  L.  LAWSOS 143 

Scenes  oa  the  Mississippi    ....  CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN  .  .  .148 
Evening 172 


X  CONTENTS. 

The  Daughter  of  Jairus HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT  .  .  .  173 

The  Mission  Unfulfilled MRS.  EMMA  c.  EMBURY 177 

Prayer  of  a  Bereaved  Mother   .  .  PARK  BENJAMIN 193 

A  Morning  at  Rome JAMES  ALDRICB 195 

The  Deserted  Wife SAMOEL  D.  PATTERSON 203 

The  Intrigue,  the  Assassination, 

and  the  Punishment w.  CHEEVER,  M.  D 204 

Lines  to  the  Soul WILLIAM  PITT  PALMER 223 

The  Emigrant's  Sabbath H.  HASTINGS  WELD 227 

The  Return s.  D.  PATTERSON 234 

Lyric  Poetry HENRY  T.  TDCKERMAN 237 

Christ  Walking  on  the  Sea  ....  MRS.  p.  w.  CHANDLER 246 

Morning  on  the  VVissahiccon  .  .  .  EDGAR  A.  POE 249^1 

The  Pursuit  of  Ease TRANSLATOR  OF"MARYSTCART"  257 

Faith WILLIAM  H.  BURLEIGH 260 

Prayer RET.  s.  r.  SMITH 262 

The  April  Birthday H.  T.  TCCKERMAN     263 


LIST  OF  EMBELLISHMENTS. 

CHRIST  WALKING  ON  THE  SEA,  (Frontispiece.) 
RUTH  AND  NAOMI,  (Vignette.) 

DREAM  OF  THE  CONSUMPTIVE  -  62 

CHRIST  BY  THE  WELL  OF  STCHAR  -  106 

THE  MILL      -  -.146 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JAIRUS  173 

THE  DESERTED  WIFE  -      203 

THE  EMIGRANT'S  SABBATH  227 

MORNING       -  249 


THE   OPAL. 


SCRIPTURAL  PROPHECY  AND  ITS  SYMBOLS. 

•;  I':*,;,,'/;;  ..;..•»»!- '.jifi 
BY  THE  REV.  GEORGE  BUSH,  D.D. 

PROFESSOR  OF  HEBREW  AND  ORIENTAL  LITERATURE  IN  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  NEW  YORK. 

THE  grand  principle  lying  at  the  foundation  of  this 
department  of  Revelation  is,  that  Prophecy  is  History 
foretold,  and  History  is  Prophecy  fulfilled  ;  that  is,  the 
history  of  those  peoples  and  powers  which  come  within 
the  range  of  the  divine  predictions  ;  and  these  are  mainly  \ 
the  four  great  empires  of  antiquity,  the  Babylonian,  the 
Medo-Persian,  the  Grecian,  and  the  Roman,  the  last  of 
which  extends  down  to  our  day,  and  is,  in  the  estimate 
of  prophecy,  still  subsisting.  This  quaternian  of  em- 
pires is  singled  out  from  all  the  great  succession  of 
earthly  dynasties,  from  their  more  direct  bearings  on  the 
fortunes  of  the  church  in  different  ages  of  the  world. 
This  grand  cycle  of  sovereignties  is  first  exhibited  in  the 
visions  of  Daniel,  and  as  the  three  first  had  passed 
away  in  the  days  of  John,  when  the  Apocalypse  was 
written,  therefore  the  disclosures  of  that  book  are  con- 
2 


14  THE    OPAL. 

fined  mainly  to  the  territorial  platform  and  the  political 
destinies  of  the  last. 

The  grand  object  then  of  inspired  prediction  is  to 
unfold  the  course  of  human  affairs,  in  its  great  outline, 
so  far  as  it  has  respect  to  those  paramount  moral  inte- 
rests of  men,  which  are  embodied  and  represented  in  the 
church.  We  see  not  what  valid  objection,  on  the  ground 
of  reason,  can  be  taken  to  this  view  of  the  subject.  So 
long  as  we  plead  only  for  the  prophetic  announcement 
of  the  grander  and  more  important  events  of  civil  history, 
without  claiming  a  notice  of  its  specific  details,  in  regard 
to  which  imagination  may  easily  run  riot,  we  perceive 
nothing  derogatory  to  the  infinite  wisdom  of  Jehovah — 
nothing  unworthy  of  a  place  in  the  mystic  roll  of  reve- 
lation. The  secular  affairs  of  the  world — the  great 
revolutions,  moral  and  political,  which  advance  the  pro- 
gress, or  in  any  way  affect  the  destinies,  of  the  race, 
certainly  come  within  the  scope  of  the  special  counsels 
of  the  Most  High,  and  if  so,  we  know  no  good  reason 
why  they  should  not  be  embraced  in  the  range  of  his 
express  predictions.  No  one  refuses  to  admit  that,  prior 
to  the  first  advent  of  the  Messiah,  there  was  a  system  of 
prophecy  vouchsafed  to  the  Jewish  church,  announcing 
the  Saviour  in  person,  and  that  spiritual  or  gospel  king- 
dom which  he  was  to  establish.  Now,  we  may  propound 
the  question,  whether  there  is  any  thing  in  the  nature  or 
design  of  that  kingdom  which  should  restrict  the  prophe. 
cies  respecting  it  solely  to  its  commencing  era?  Is  not 
its  subsequent  career  and  prosperity  from  age  to  age — 
the  enemies  it  should  encounter — the  disasters  it  should 
experience — the  triumphs  it  should  achieve — a  theme 


SCRIPTURAL    PROPHECY.  15 

equally  worthy  the  prophetic  pen  1  Do  they  not  consti- 
tute a  field  of  legitimate  inspired  disclosure  ?  And  is  there 
any  thing  presumptuous,  or  visionary,  or  vain,  in  the 
attempt  to  find  the  fulfilment  of  a  large  class  of  prophe- 
cies in  the  events  of  history  subsequent  to  the  time  of 
Christ,  and  along  the  course  of  centuries  down  to  the 
present  day  ?  Is  there  any  reason  for  shrinking  from 
the  admission,  that  even  the  Old  Testament  seers,  such 
as  Moses,  Isaiah,  Ezekiel,  and  Daniel,  should  have  been 
enabled  to  utter  oracles,  whose  ultimate  reach  should 
take  hold  on  the  occurrences  of  the  latter  days  of  time  ? 
Was  not  the  whole  future  open  to  the  view  of  that 
Omniscient  Spirit  under  whose  direction  they  wrote? 
And  did  it  require  any  higher  afflatus  to  announce  events 
that  should  take  place  after  the  era  of  Christ  than  before 
it?  Does  it  not  require  the  same  power  of  prescience 
to  foretell  what  shall  happen  within  a  hundred,  and  within 
a  thousand,  or  ten  thousand  years?  Or  can  it  possibly 
be  shown,  that  there  is  intrinsically  any  less  reason  for 
announcing  the  latter  than  the  earlier  fortunes  of  the 
church  of  the  living  God,  and  of  those  nations  with  which 
it  has  had  to  do  ? 

But  it  may  be  said  that  this  opens  a  field  of  endless 
conjecture — that  "  every  one"  as  the  apostle  says,  "  hath 
a  doctrine,  hath  a  revelation,  hath  an  interpretation" — 
and  that  the  wild  and  fanciful  expositions  every  where 
vented,  tend  to  bring  the  whole  subject  into  disrepute 
with  the  sober-minded,  while  the  countless  diversities  of 
opinion  cut  off  all  grounds  of  confidence  in  any  inter- 
pretation that  may  be  proposed.  We  are  sorry  to  be 
obliged  to  admit,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  there  has  been 


16  THE   OPAL. 

too  much  occasion  for  this  disparaging  remark.  It 
cannot  be  doubted  that  prophecy  has  been  and  still  is  a 
theatre  for  the  exhibition  of  all  manner  of  Quixotic 
errantry  and  extravagance — that  it  has  been  made  a 
stalking-horse  for  parading  before  the  eyes  of  the  com- 
munity the  motley  effigies  of  every  crude  and  visionary 
and  grotesque  conjecture.  But  the  same  may  be  said 
of  Christianity  in  general,  which  yet  we  do  not  feel 
required  to  discard  by  reason  of  the  abuses  that  have 
grown  up  under  its  prostituted  name. 

The  difficulty  in  regard  to  prophecy  has  arisen  mainly 
'from  two  sources  :  1,  the  failure  on  the  part  of  writers 
to  fix  upon  sound  causes  of  interpretation  in  regard  to 
the  prophetic  symbols  ;  and  2,  the  lack  of  a  competent 
measure  of  historical  information.  History  is  the  great 
storehouse  from  which  the  materials  of  prophetic  inter- 
pretation are  to  be  drawn ;  and,  other  things  being  equal, 
he  is  best  qualified  to  solve  the  enigmas  of  prophecy  who 
is  most  at  home  in  the  facts  of  history.  Now,  it  is  cer- 
tain, that  the  providence  of  God  is  so  ordering  it,  that 
the  page  of  past  history  is  becoming  more  and  more 
distinctly  deciphered  by  the  talent  of  the  learned  at  this 
day  than  at  any  former  period,  and  consequently  the 
facilities  are  constantly  multiplying  upon  us  for  a  more 
intelligent  reading  of  the  oracles  of  the  sacred  seers. 
The  result  must  inevitably  be,  that  the  mystic  shadow- 
ings  of  the  Apocalypse  will  gradually  resolve  themselves 
more  and  more  into  the  verified  facts  to  which  they  refer, 
and  this  department  will  be  continually  redeeming  itself 
from  the  disparagement  and  opprobrium  under  which  it 
has  laboured.  It  will  be  possible,  we  have  no  doubt,  to 


SCRIPTURAL    PROPHECY.  17 

satisfy  sober  and  reflecting  men,  that  such  and  such 
visions  of  the  prophets  do  actually  point  to  such  and 
such  orders  of  events  in  Providence,  either  fulfilled  or 
fulfilling,  and  that  prophetic  exposition  may  be  some- 
thing more  than  mere  idle  romancing  or  solemn  humbug. 
In  all  this  matter  we  are  persuaded  there  is  a  hopeful 
process  of  recovery  and  improvement  going  on  in  the 
hitherto  diseased  mind,  notwithstanding  the  revolting 
outbreaks  of  crudities  and  hallucinations  which  are  every 
now  and  then  forcing  themselves  upon  public  attention. 

But  instead  of  expounding  these  considerations,  it 
may  be  a  matter  of  more  interest  to  offer  some  remarks 
illustrative  of  the  symbolical  genius  of  that  unique  and 
wondrous  composition  which  forms  the  closing  book  of 
the  sacred  canon,  and  to  the  devout  study  and  true  un- 
derstanding of  which,  the  promise  of  the  divine  blessing 
is  so  unequivocally  annexed.  And  we  again  lay  it 
down  as  fundamental  in  the  connexion,  that  the  genuine 
scope  of  the  disclosures  of  the  Apocalypse  is  to  unfold 
beforehand  the  great  chain  of  worldly  events  which  are 
to  transpire  in  reference  to  the  church  and  its  successive 
destinies  through  the  lapse  of  time.  The  earth  is  to  be 
regarded  as  the  true  scene  or  theatre  of  the  symbolical 
drama  which  it  pictures  forth.  We  are  not  then  to  sup- 
pose,  that  because  John  is  represented  as  being  com- 
manded to  come  up  into  heaven,  and  to  describe  what 
he  there  beheld,  therefore  the  scenes  which  he  witnesses 
had  their  real  occurrence  in  heaven  instead  of  upon 
earth.  The  actual  substantial  realities  couched  under 
the  visionary  phenomena  are  to  occur  in  the  terraqueous 
arena  below.  In  like  manner,  the  agents  employed  are 
2* 


18  THE    OPAL. 

really  men,  though  called  in  the  diction  of  prophecy 
angels.  This  arises  naturally  from  the  decorum  of  the 
imagery.  The  ostensible  agents  must  be  in  keeping 
with  the  ostensible  scene  of  action.  Heaven  is  the 
appropriate  sphere  of  angels,  and  therefore  in  these 
symbolical  visionings  the  dramatis  personce  are  angelic 
instead  of  human.  But  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  the 
celestial  scenes  are  not  intended  to  portray  actual 
unities  taking  place  in  the  heavenly  regions,  but  they 
are  the  mere  representings,  shadows  of  a  series  of  events 
developed  on  the  earth,  and  brought  about  by  men 
acting  from  motives  that  perhaps  usually  have  little 
respect  to  the  accomplishment  of  the  divine  purposes  or 
predictions. 

It  will  be  perceived  that  we  make  a  free  use,  in  this 
connexion,  of  the  term  shadow,  and  an  apposite  illus- 
tration of  our  leading  idea  will  show  very  clearly  the 
signal  propriety  of  this  use  of  the  word.  In  the  history 
of  the  kings  of  Judah  and  Israel,  I  Kings,  xxii.  19-23, 
it  will  be  recollected,  that  Ahab  and  Jehoshaphat  were, 
on  one  occasion,  extremely  anxious  to  go  up  on  a 
military  expedition  against  Ramoth-gilead,  and  earnestly 
desired  from  a  company  of  prophets  an  answer  favour- 
able to  their  wishes.  Most  of  this  company  were  ob- 
sequious to  the  royal  leanings,  and,  like  other  mean 
panders  to  kingly  propensities,  prophesied  an  auspicious 
result  to  the  enterprise.  But  Micaiah,  a  faithful  servant 
of  the  Most  High,  withstood  this  current  of  assent, 
adulation,  and  compliance,  and  intrepidly  declared  a 
totally  different  issue.  He  did  it,  however,  in  a  bold, 
Eastern  parabolic  style  as  follows : 


SCRIPTURAL    PROPHECY.  19 

"  And  he  said,  Hear  thou  therefore  the  word  of  the 
Lord  :  I  saw  the  Lord  sitting  on  his  throne,  and  all  the 
host  of  heaven  standing  by  him  on  his  right  hand  and 
on  his  left.  And  the  Lord  said,  who  shall  persuade 
Ahab,  that  he  may  go  up  and  fall  at  Ramoth-gilead  ? 
And  one  said  on  this  manner,  and  another  said  on  that 
manner.  And  there  came  forth  a  spirit,  and  stood 
before  the  Lord,  and  said,  I  will  persuade  him.  And 
the  Lord  said  unto  him,  Wherewith  1  And  he  said,  I 
will  go  forth,  and  I  will  be  a  lying  spirit  in  the  mouth  of 
all  his  prophets.  And  he  said,  Thou  shalt  persuade  him, 
and  prevail  also :  go  forth,  and  do  so.  Now,  therefore, 
behold,  the  Lord  hath  put  a  lying  spirit  in  the  mouth  of 
all  these  thy  prophets,  and  the  Lord  hath  spoken  evil 
concerning  thee." 

Now  how  is  this  to  be  understood  ?  Is  it  to  be  sup- 
posed the  description  of  a  real  bond  fide  occurrence  in 
the  spiritual  world  1  Surely  the  God  of  Truth  cannot 
sanction  a  lie  nor  the  spirit  of  lying ;  nor  can  we  adopt 
an  interpretation  which  would  even  seem  to  favour  that 
idea.  "What  then  is  the  true  solution?  Why,  doubtless, 
that  this  is  merely  a  symbolical  picture.  It  is  the 
heavenly  shadow  of  an  earthly  occurrence.  The  scene 
is  ideally  and  pictorially  laid  in  heaven,  whereas  the' 
actual  corresponding  reality  was  even  at  that  moment 
taking  place  in  the  court  of  Ahab,  in  which  the  lying 
spirit  was  embodied  in  the  persons  of  these  false-hearted 
and  time-serving  prophets.  It  was  an  actual  providence 
turned  into  a  symbolical  adumbration.  God,  in  his 
righteous  providence,  permitted  the  spirit  of  delusion  to 
take  possession  of  infatuated  kings,  in  consequence  of 


20  THE    OPAL. 

which  they  were  urged  on  to  their  own  destruction  in 
going  against  Ramoth-gilead.  The  issue  was  just  what 
the  prophet  predicted  in  the  same  figurative  style:  "And 
he  said,  I  saw  all  Israel  scattered  upon  the  hills  as  sheep 
without  a  shepherd."  It  was,  therefore,  plainly  nothing 
more  than  a  visionary  representation  of  a  providential 
event  occurring  among  men  on  the  earth,  though  the 
scene  of  it  be  laid  by  the  teller  in  heaven. 

The  specimen  now  given  will  afford  a  striking  illus- 
tration of  the  nature  of  a  multitude  of  the  prophetic 
visions,  and  especially  of  the  great  symbolical  staple  of 
which  the  Apocalypse  is  composed.  These  visions  are 
a  kind  of  picture  which  may  be  said  to  be  stereotyped  in 
the  celestial  tablet  from  the  actually  occurring  events  of 
earth  and  time.  Imagine  for  a  moment  the  concave 
vault  to  be  transformed  to  a  vast  molten  mirror,  which 
Job  says  it  resembles,  and  that  the  great  events  of  our 
globe  cast  their  images  upon  it, — as  cities,  villages, 
vessels,  and  landscapes,  are  sometimes  seen  reflected 
in  the  clouds — in  continually  progressive  developement. 
This  will  give  us  some  correct  idea  of  the  character  of 
prophetic  visions ;  with  this  important  difference,  how- 
ever,  that  in  prophecy  the  shadow  precedes  the  substance. 
In  this  supernal  picture,  displayed  on  the  azure  firma- 
ment, there  is  a  foreshowing  of  the  evolution  of  the 
corresponding  realities  which  time  and  providence  are  to 
summon  up.  And  this  is  the  great  wonder  of  prophecy, 
in  view  of  which,  the  mind  is  lost  in  amazement — that 
it  should  have  hung  up  its  diorama  of  phantasms  in  those 
fields  of  light,  composed  of  forms,  and  figures,  and 
actings,  which  shall  answer  with  such  astonishing  accu- 


SCRIPTURAL    PROPHECY.  21 

racy  to  their  living  counterparts  as  they  become  deve- 
loped on  this  sublunary  platform.  We  can  in  fact  in  no 
better  way  conceive  of  the  marvel  than  by  imagining 
the  lone  Indian  ages  ago  floating  down  in  his  fragile 
bark  the  Hudson  or  the  Susquehanna,  when  nought  but 
the  primeval  forests  overhung  its  tranquil  flood,  and 
beholding  reflected  on  its  sunny  surface  the  cities,  vil- 
lages, farms,  flocks,  mills,  and  bridges,  which  not  till 
after  the  lapse  of  centuries  are  to  come  into  existence. 

Let  us  now  apply  this  to  the  Apocalypse.  The 
Supreme  Ruler  of  the  universe,  who  knows  the  end 
from  the  beginning,  designs  to  announce  beforehand  a 
grand  series  of  events,  not  perhaps  in  its  minute  details, 
but  in  its  general  outline.  There  are  obviously  two 
methods  by  which  this  could  be  done — the  one  by  literal, 
the  other  by  figurative  or  symbolical  prediction.  The 
latter  is  the  method  which  he  has  seen  fit  to  adopt.  He 
has  made  use  of  a  system  of  pictorial  representations  or 
emblems,  to  shadow  forth  a  corresponding  series  of 
actual  occurrences.  This  differs  from  the  literal  mode 
just  as  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress  differs  from  Dod- 
dridge's  Rise  and  Progress  of  Religion  in  the  Soul ! 
Both  these  works  may  be  said  to  contain  the  biography 
of  a  Christian,  &  setting  forth  of  the  progress  of  his 
inner  spiritual  life  ;  but  in  the  one  case  it  is  conveyed 
in  a  most  exquisite  tissue  of  allegory,  while  in  the  other 
it  is  embodied  in  the  sober  language  of  absolute  verity. 

Such  then  is  the  peculiar  structure  of  the  Apocalypse, 
— a  series  of  prophetic  visions  announcing  a  grand  order 
of  events  to  transpire  through  the  ages  of  time,  and 
which,  as  they  arise,  are  perceived  by  the  instructed  eye 


22  THE    OPAL. 

to  form  themselves — we  had  almost  said  to  crystallize 
themselves — into  conformity  with  the  visioned  patterns 
described  by  the  pen  of  the  prophet.  The  great  business 
of  the  expositor  is  to  compare  these  symbolic  semblances" 
with  the  recorded  facts  of  history,  and  thus  to  bring 
providence  and  prophecy  more  and  more  to  a  tally.  This 
we  may  be  assured  can  be  done.  This  department  of 
revelation  may  be  fully  redeemed  from  the  charge  of 
arbitrary  or  random  guessing,  and  be  made  in  the  end 
to  disclose  a  rich  abundance  of  the  noblest  elements  of 
moral  power.  Greater  and  greater  certainty  will  be 
continually  infused  into  the  solutions  of  learned  in- 
terpreters ;  and  prophecy,  which  has  hitherto,  for  the 
most  part,  been  fulfilled  blindly  by  agents  "  who  thought 
not  so,"  will  at  length  be  accomplished  intelligently,  and 
taken  as  a  guide  and  directory  to  duty  by  the  Christian 
church.  It  will  then  become  one  of  the  grand  means 
of  its  own  fulfilment,  and  as  page  after  page  of  its 
mystic  records  is  unrolled,  it  will  be  as  if  the  leaves  of 
a  new  revelation  had  dropped  from  time  to  time  out  of 
heaven,  and  they  will  be  at  the  same  time  leaves  of  the 
Tree  of  Life,  for  the  healing  of  the  nations.  For  the 
great  burden  of  prophecy  is  the  ultimate  evangelization 
and  regeneration  of  the  world. 


A  THOUGHT  OVER  A  CRADLE. 


BY  N.  P.  WILLIS. 

I  SADDEN  when  thou  smilest  to  my  smile, 
Child  of  my  love !     I  tremble  to  believe 
That  o'er  the  mirror  of  that  eye  of  blue 
The  shadow  of  my  heart  will  always  pass ; — 
A  heart  that  from  its  struggle  with  the  world, 
Comes  nightly  to  thy  guarded  cradle  home, 
And,  careless  of  the  staining  dust  it  brings, 
Asks  for  its  idol !     Strange,  that  flowers  of  earth 
Are  visited  by  every  air  that  stirs, 
And  drink  in  sweetness  only,  while  the  child 
That  shuts  within  its  breast  a  bloom  for  heaven, 
May  take  a  blemish  from  the  breath  of  love, 
And  bear  the  blight  for  ever. 

I  have  wept 

With  gladness  at  the  gift  of  this  fair  child ! 
My  life  is  bound  up  in  her !     But,  oh  God ! 
Thou  knowest  how  heavily  my  heart  at  times 
Bears  its  sweet  burthen ;  and  if  thou  hast  given 
To  nurture  such  as  thine  this  spotless  flower, 


24  THE    OPAL. 

To  bring  it  unpolluted  unto  thee, 

Take  thou  its  love,  I  pray  thee !     Give  it  light — 

Though,  following  the  sun,  it  turn  from  me ! — 

But,  by  the  chord  thus  wrung,  and  by  the  light 

Shining  about  her,  draw  me  to  my  child, 

And  link  us  close,  oh  God,  when  near  to  heaven  ! 


CHILDREN. 

BY  JAMES  ALDRICH. 

BY  the  old  masters  painted 

In  many  a  convent  gray, 
I've  seen  the  sweet  child  Jesus 

And  little  St.  John  at  play. 

Two  blooming  cherubs  seemed  they, 
And  anear  them  sat  the  while, 

The  ever-blessed  Virgin, 

With  her  sweet  maternal  smile. 

And  sometimes  living  pictures 

Like  to  these  have  met  mine  eyes ; 

Flowers  of  more  than  earthly  beauty, 
Sunny  gleams  of  paradise  ! 

Little  children,  sorrow  free, 

Blessed  with  mother's  love  and  care ; 
Holy  thoughts  ye  bring  to  me, 

For,  of  God,  of  God  ye  are  ! 


THE  STUDENT. 

HE  DISCOURSE!1!!  UPON  VIRTUE. 

BY  ERNEST  HELFE.NSTEIN. 

A  SHADOW  is  upon  thy  spirit,  my  beloved  ;  shall  we 
lift  the  veil  together  that  shrouds  the  mysteries  of  life — 
or  wouldst  thou  be  alone  in  the  sanctuary  of  thy  heart  ? 

Enter  with  me,  dear  Ernest,  I  would  hide  nothing 
from  thee  except  as  I  would  spare  thee  pain.  Give  me 
the  counsels  of  thy  wisdom,  for  thou  art  ever  thine  own 
master — thou  hast  that  calmness  which  is  the  gift  of 
power,  that  the  extraneous  and  the  trivial  disturb  thee 
not ;  the  soul  hath  strange  moods — shadows  come  upon 
it,  we  know  not  whence  nor  why.  If  there  are  periods 
even  here  when  we  become  so  divested  of  human  pas- 
sions, and  human  pursuits,  that  the  wrong  they  may 
inflict  upon  our  spiritual  nature  shall  appal  us  with  its 
greatness,  what  shall  we  be  when  free  to  behold  these 
things  in  the  naked  light  of  truth  ! 

There  are  sacred  and  yet  fearful  moments  to  the  soul, 
my  beloved,  when  we  stand  at  the  mount  of  God,  in  the 
midst  of  thunders  and  thick  darkness,  and  the  heart 

3 


26  THE    OPAL. 

trembleth  while  the  true,  the  eternal,  is  inscribed  upon  it 
as  with  the  finger  of  the  Almighty — "  It  is  well  to  tarry 
here  awhile" — here  in  this  wilderness  of  doubt — for  pre- 
sently the  cloud  or  the  flame  will  roll  thee  onward  to  new 
perils  and  to  new  glories. 

It  is  a  sad  resting — with  gloom  and  dismay  upon 
every  side.  How  little  do  human  palliatives  avail  Error 
when  she  stands  face  to  face  with  Truth  !  In  times  like 
these,  Ernest,  the  slightest  evil  into  which  youth,  inex- 
perience, impulse,  or  circumstance  may  have  betrayed 
the  human  heart,  appears  as  without  excuse — all  de- 
partures from  the  true  and  the  good,  a  mortal  injury  to 
the  soul. 

So  it  would  be,  my  beloved,  did  the  soul  assent;  did 
the  habitude  of  wrong  create  content  in  wrong-doing. 
The  very  poignancy  of  distress,  proves  the  vitality  of 
the  subject.  We  should  deplore  less  the  presence  of 
evil,  than  the  absence  of  good.  To  the  spirit  accustomed 
to  worship  at  the  high  altar  of  truth,  the  presence  of 
falsehood  is  as  the  touch  of  a  reptile  escaped  from  the 
weeds  at  its  base  ;  it  chills  and  appals. 

Then  should  we,  dear  Ernest,  bless  God,  even  for 
this  sackcloth  of  the  spirit— then  should  we  repose  tran- 
quilly with  the  dust  upon  our  head,  feeling  that  the  soul 
is  made  worthier  for  its  inward  trials. 

Even  so,  dearest ;  and  yet  praying  to  be  delivered 
from  the  perils  of  overwhelming  regret,  whatever  may 
have  been  its  cause ;  but  rather  beseeching  that  the  true 
and  the  good  may  so  win  upon  our  affections,  that  the 
evil  shall  no  more  tempt  us  aside.  As  a  man  thinketh 
in  his  heart,  so  is  he,  and  if  the  inner  life  be  holy,  a 


THE    STUDENT.  27 

passing  outward  evil  cannot  be  fatal  to  it.  It  is  the 
habitude  that  dimmeth  the  moral  perception,  that  extin- 
guisheth  the  spiritual  vision — till  the  light  within  be- 
comes darkness. 

«  I  feel  a  new  strength,  dear  Ernest,  while  listening  to 
thy  wisdom — and  yet  how  the  consciousness  of  error 
abaseth  the  proud  heart !  how  the  haughtiness  of  our 
nature  shrinketh  from  her  presence !  Oh !  that  one 
might  live  the  ideal ;  be  the  good  and  the  true :  not 
admire  and  love  merely,  but  be  the  embodiment  of  all 
that  we  conceive  of  human  perfection  ! 

The  desire  invalueth  the  certainty  of  progress  thereto. 
'  To  be  exempt  from  human  error,  were  to  be  exempt 
from  human  emotions.  The  contest  with  evil  but  maketh 
the  triumphs  of  goodness  more  complete.  If  in  slaying 
the  dragon  we  become  stained  .with  his  blood,  let  not  the 
thing  dismay,  so  long  as  he  lieth  dead  at  our  feet.  It  is 
one  of  the  uses  of  evil  to  place  virtue  in  bolder  relief — 
it  is  the  shadow,  which  can  be  only  where  there  is  light. 
And  now,  my  friend,  as  a  creature  endowed  with  the 
attributes  of  humanity,  is  one  exposed  to  the  violations 
of  the  great  principles  of  justice,  liable  to  seek  the  gra- 
tification of  his  desires  at  the  sacrifice  of  the  good  and 
the  true,  a  standard  which  he  perceives  yet  faileth  to 
reach,  it  may  be  that  a  consciousness  of  ill -desert,  is  the 
very  state  of  being  necessary  to  make  us  meet  subjects 
for  the  blood  of  the  atonement — the  conviction  that  our 
own  acts  have  not  entitled  us  to  eternal  felicity,  may 
direct  us  to  the  feet  of  the  Great  Teacher,  for  he  alone 
was  guiltless  as  to  the  law,  he  alone  could  say,  "  I  have 
overcome  the  world,"  he  "  fulfilled  the  law" — and  in  the 


28  THE    OPAL. 

great  mission  which  he  accomplished,  he  founded  a  new 
code,  that  of  Lave.  We  shall  not  be  condemned  in  that 
we  have  erred,  if  so  be  this  principle  be  strong  within 
us ;  and  often  we  need  to  pass  in  the  shadow  of  evil, 
that  we  may  rejoice  in  the  good — "  To  whom  much  is 
forgiven,  the  same  loveth  much." 

These  are  vast  almost  incomprehensible  topics,  Ernest ; 
do  we  not  feel,  while  thus  discoursing  upon  them,  as  if 
admitted  already  within  the  portals  of  the  unseen  and 
eternal  ?  Do  not  our  souls  seem  bathed  in  a  purer  atmo- 
sphere, as  if  the  wings  of  our  better  angel  had  fanned 
aside  the  shadows  that  fall  from  earthly  things  ? — and 
this  rainy  day,  meseems,  while  it  saddens  somewhat,  is 
also  favourable  to  themes  like  these. 

Let  me  give  thee  this  cordial,  my  friend,  compounded 
of  gums  and  aromatics,  which  dispose  the  blood  to  a 
readier  flow,  and  yet  stimulate  no  unequal  action  of  the 
brain.  Undoubtedly  a  rainy  day  is  favourable  to  reflec- 
tion, and  yet  what  shall  we  say  of  human  actions,  when 
a  certain  combination  of  the  elements  may  send  us  forth 
with  the  gladness  of  a  free  bird,  alive  to  blessedness 
and  love,  or  plunge  us  into  gloom — into  despair — into 
misanthropy  and  crime  ! 

Dear  Ernest,  this  is  but  the  influence  of  things  upon 
our  senses,  and  doth  not  touch  our  moral  actions. 

Yet  it  giveth  an  impulse  to  them,  and  hath  much,  very 
much  to  do  with  the  feeling  with  which  we  regard  them. 
All  times  are  alike  to  Truth,  her  principles  are  fixed  and 
immutable,  and  yet  when  the  sun  is  bright  upon  the 
earth  we  find  a  thousand  extenuations  of  error  that  fail 
us  on  a  day  like  this.  A  fair  day  prompts  to  geniality, 


THE    STUDENT.  29 

a  dull  one  to  sternness,  or  if  the  fountains  of  blessed- 
ness have  become  dry  in  the  heart,  prompts  to  evil 
deeds. 

Why,  Ernest,  you  would  make  virtue  an  accident,  a 
state  of  the  nerves,  rather  than  a  holy,  self-denying  ac- 
quirement. 

What  shall  we  say,  dearest,  when  the  slightest  thing 
in  the  material  world  is  able  to  change  the  very  current 
of  thought  ?  when  the  pressure  of  the  fingers  upon 
certain  parts  of  the  brain  will  suggest  new  and  insulated 
trains  of  images?  when  a  local  pain,  an  absence  of 
organic  action,  will  produce  an  error  in  judgment? 
When  a  few  simples  genially  administered,  transform 
the  despairing  moralist  into  the  cheerful  philosopher,  as 
in  the  case  of  the  friend  at  my  side  ? 

Then  there  was  profound  wisdom  in  the  wish  that 
Shakspeare  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Wolsey  at  his  feast, 
where  he  says,  "  I  wish  you  a  good  digestion !" 

A  good  digestion  is  often  the  secret  of  happiness — 
often  of  external  virtue.  A  thousand  things  affect  our 
senses,  and  modify  our  actions  for  the  time  being,  which 
conscience  at  her  leisure  calleth  to  her  tribunal.  We 
live  a  thousand  lives  in  one,  each  earnest  and  distinct. 
Then  cometh  the  great  day  of  accounts,  when  all  things 
become  one,  when  the  fragments  are  united— -when  the 
many  lives  become  the  one  life.  This  it  is  that  giveth 
oneness,  continuity  to  our  being.  Some  are  incapable 
of  this  great  process  of  combining — they  live  in  parts, 
and  their  actions  hang  about  them  like  ill-fitting  gar- 
ments. 

And  yet  you  make  us,  Ernest,  too  much  the  creatures 
3* 


30  THE    OPAL. 

of  circumstance.  Meseems  there  is  a  virtue  of  the  will, 
which  is  independent  of  circumstance.  A  life  within, 
high  and  holy,  to  which  the  external  must  be  perpetually 
striving  to  assimilate. 

Ay,  dearest,  and  that  is  the  true  life.  The  law  of 
our  members  may  war  against  the  law  of  the  mind,  but 
woe  to  him,  who  subjecteth  the  law  of  the  mind  to  the 
sway  of  the  baser  law.  Man  is  too  often  the  creature 
of  circumstance — the  good  or  the  evil  in  him  is  often 
that  of  accident.  His  many  lives  are  often  at  variance 
one  with  the  other.  His  reason,  his  sentiments,  his  in- 
stincts, are  often  discordant.  He  sitteth  in  the  silence 
of  solitude  and  frameth  beautiful  and  exalted  theories, 
an  Utopia  of  the  soul — he  entereth  a  church  and  boweth 
reverently  in  worship — a  life  of  sentiment  is  here — a 
beautiful  woman  hath  knelt  in  prayer  at  his  side,  and  he 
heareth  her  low-toned  utterance  of  devotion— a  new  life 
is  awakened  within  him,  all  distinct,  and  yet  they  are 
conjoined  in  one  being.  Well  for  him — well  for  the 
strong  man — if  he  hath  the  strong  will  to  unite  the  many 
into  one  harmonious  whole. 

And  this,  dear  Ernest,  would  constitute  virtue ;  and 
you  do  not,  did  not  mean  to  imply,  that  goodness  is  an 
abstraction,  a  dream,  a  chimera  of  the  brain  ? 

No,  dearest,  only  that  we  are  not  to  judge  by  insulated 
acts,  that  we  are  often  incapable  of  judging  accurately 
<fr  ourselves,  far  more  of  others.  That  we  must  have 
great  and  just  principles  of  action  to  which  we  conform, 
and  we  are  virtuous  or  otherwise  as  we  abide  by  these. 
Virtue  is  in  the  soul — the  standard  must  be  high  there, 
and  though  the  external  man  may  be  faulty,  yet  while 


RUTH    AND    NAOMI.  31 

the  internal  perception  of  the  true  is  undimmed,  his  pro- 
gress must  and  will  be  onward.  His  faults  become  the 
infirmity,  it  may  be,  of  his  nature,  if  they  do  not  in 
truth  become  strong  aids  to  his  higher  attainments,  by 
the  power  of  contrast ;  for  one  must  have  felt  the  cold 
in  order  to  appreciate  the  geniality  of  warmth— one  must 
have  been  in  darkness  to  comprehend  the  light,  must 
have  suffered  pain  to  know  the  meaning  of  pleasure  ;  so 
truth  is  to  be  found  upon  the  confines  of  error.  Let  us 
turn  from  the  faulty  to  admire  the  perfect ;  forget  the 
imperfections  of  the  best,  and  struggle  manfully  for  the 
good  and  the  true. 


RUTH    AND    NAOMI. 


BY  RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 

"  And  Ruth  said,  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee  or  to  return  from  fol- 
lowing after  thee,  for  whither  thou  goeat  I  will  go,  where  thou  lodgest  I 
will  lodge,  thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God.  Where 
thou  diest  I  will  dje,  and  there  also  will  I  be  buried." 

NAY,  do  not  ask — entreat  not — no ! 

O  no!  I  will  not  leave  thy  side; 
Whither  thou  goest  J  will  go, 

Where  thou  abidest  I'll  abide. 

Through  life — in  death — my  soul  to  thine 
Shall  cleave  as  fond  as  first  it  clave ; 

Thy  home,  thy  people  shall  be  mine — 
Thy  God  my  God,  thy  grave  my  grave ! 


«  THE  SABBATH  OF  THE  YEAR.' 

IT  is  the  Sabbath  of  the  year ; 

And  if  you'll  walk  abroad, 
A  holy  sermon  ye  shall  hear, 

Full  worthy  of  record. 
Autumn  the  preacher  is,  and  look  ! 

As  other  preachers  do, 
He  takes  a  text  from  the  one  Great  Book, 

A  text  both  sad  and  true. 

With  a  deep  earnest  voice  he  saith, 

And  yet  a  voice  of  grief, 
Fitting  the  minister  of  Death, 

"  So  fade  all  as  a  leaf, 
And  your  iniquities,  like  the  wind, 

Have  taken  ye  away  i 
So,  fading  flutterers,  weak  and  blind, 

Repent,  return,  and  pray." 

And  then  the  wind  ariseth  slow, 

And  giveth  out  a  psalm, 
And  the  organ-pipes  begin  to  blow, 

Within  the  forest  calm  : 
Then  all  the  trees  lift  up  their  hands, 

And  lift  their  voices  higher, 
And  sing  the  notes  of  spirit-bands, 

In  full  and  glorious  choir. 


THE    SABBATH    OF    THE    YEAR.  33 

Yes !  'tis  the  Sabbath  of  the  year, 

And  it  doth  surely  seem, — 
(But  words  of  reverence  and  of  fear, 

Should  speak  of  such  a  theme,) 
That  the  corn  is  gather'd  for  the  bread, 

And  the  berries  for  the  wine, 
And  a  sacramental  feast  is  spread, 

Like  the  Christian's  pardon-sign. 

And  the  year,  with  sighs  of  penitence, 

The  holy  feast  bends  o'er, 
For  she  must  die,  and  go  out  hence, 

Die — and  be  seen  no  more. 
Then  are  the  choir  and  organ  still, 

The  psalm  melts  in  the  air, 
The  wind  bows  down  beside  the  hill, 

And  all  are  hush'd  in  prayer. 

Then  comes  the  sunset  in  the  west, 

Like  a  patriarch  of  old, 
Or  like  a  saint  who  hath  won  his  rest, 

His  robes,  and  his  crown  of  gold  ; 
And  forth  his  arms  he  stretches  wide, 

And  with  solemn  tone  and  clear, 
He  blesseth  in  the  even-tide, 

"  The  Sabbath  of  the  year." 

October  16th. 


THE  JESUIT. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  HENRI  QUATRE  ;  OR,  THE  DAYS 
OF  THE  LEAGUE,"  ETC. 

/ 

WHILST  Spain  was  stealthily  forging  arms  and  mana- 
cles, and  her  navy-yards  groaned  under  the  labour  of 
creating  the  Invincible  Armada,  Protestant  and  heretic 
England,  against  whom  the  vast  flotilla  was  intended, 
enjoyed  the  fruits  of  commerce  and  improved  agriculture, 
fostered  by  a  female  sovereign  who  appreciated  the 
energies  and  possessed  the  tact  of  directing  the  ambitious 
scope  of  her  subjects.  Domestic  rapine  had  long  ceased 
to  disfigure  the  land,  all  strife  was  hushed,  save  in  the 
hearts  and  on  the  tongue,  in  secret  conference,  of  the 
suppressed  papists  ;  the  more  violent  still  harbouring — 
through  promised  foreign  aid — hopes  of  the  nation's 
return  to  Romish  supremacy.  It  was  during  this  reign, 
and  at  the  period  when  the  din  of  Spanish  armories  was 
borne  faintly  to  the  shores  which  owned  Elizabeth's 
sway,  that  our  history  opens,  in  the  north  of  Lan- 
cashire. In  the  background,  are  the  lofty  hills  which 
separate  the  county  from  Yorkshire — a  wild  region, 
"  land  of  the  flood  and  the  fell."  Midway  stands  an  old 
hall,  encircled  by  a  park,  or  chase,  rough,  neglected, 


THE   JESUIT.  36 

uncultivated,  with  here  and  there  a  withered,  felled  tree, 
struck  by  lightning  or  borne  to  earth  by  wild  chorus  of 
winds,  wailing  malicious  dirge  as  they  sweep  down- 
ward from  the  steep  mountains  toward  the  north.  The 
ghastly  trunks,  rotting  where  they  fell,  hacked  and 
maimed  by  the  poorly  clad,  and  ill-fed  peasant  in  his 
night-depredations,  bespoke  the  absence  of  careful  forester, 
and  neglect  of  the  gentle  art  of  woodcraft.  In  the  fore- 
ground hurries  on  a  deep,  eddying  stream,  a  few  roods 
only  from  the  belt  of  forest.  The  river  is  crossed  by 
a  bridge,  on  the  centre  of  which  stands  an  ancient, 
fortified  toll-house.  The  public  road,  if  it  can  be  called 
such,  on  quitting  the  forest,  keeps  company  with  the 
stream,  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  plainly  indicating  to  the 
traveller  that  his  way  lies  on  the  near  side  of  the  river, 
unless  he  have  business  at  the  manor-house  in  the  chase. 
The  habitable  portion  of  the  toll-house  stands  on  an  arch 
embracing  the  causeway  of  the  bridge  ;  the  road  under, 
was  formerly  protected  by  a  portcullis,  in  lieu  of  which 
a  strong  oaken-gate  is  substituted.  In  the  feudal  era,  the 
lord  of  the  domain  was  wont  to  take  toll  of  all  merchants, 
pilgrims  or  travellers  ;  and  a  fair  income  he  derived,  as 
the  highway  then  lay  across  the  stream,  and  in  con- 
tinuation, beneath  the  walls  of  his  fortress.  In  con- 
sideration of  the  tribute,  he  protected  the  wayfarer  from 
rapine  and  spoliation  as  far  as  his  authority  extended  ; 
beyond  that,  he  was  left  to  the  mercies  of  forest-bands, 
and  hedge-desperadoes,  unless  in  condition  to  disburse 
another  modus  to  the  seignorial  lord  of  the  soil  his  foot 
then  traversed.  When  baronial  oppression  sank  under 
the  influence  of  civilization  and  commerce,  our  proprietor 


36  THE    OPAL. 

of  the  toll-bridge,  for  the  first  time,  felt  the  inconvenience 
of  his  deer  chase  being  a  public  thoroughfare ;  he  now 
courted  seclusion,  turned  the  course  of  the  road,  shut 
out  travellers  with  a  strong  gate,  defended  by  lodge- 
porters,  and  with  anxious  solicitude  for  the  preservation 
of  the  game  and  the  wood,  threatened  depredators  and 
trespassers  with  the  stocks,  the  jail  and  the  whipping- 
post. Time,  and  circumstances  which  we  shall  here- 
after relate,  reduced  the  establishment,  in  the  days  of 
good  Queen  Bess,  to  one  superannuated  liveryman.  A. 
small  wicket  opened  in  one  wing  of  the  gate  for  the 
passage  of  pedestrians,  and  a  grated  loophole,  in  the  but- 
tress of  the  arch,  enabled  the  old  badgeman,  Arthur,  to 
examine  visitors  ere  he  admitted  them. 

'Twas  a  warm  afternoon  of  June,  and  Arthur  sat  in 
a  window  of  the  sunny  chamber  above,  peering  at  the 
forest — the  outer  domain  of  the  manor — where  the  deer 
came  momently  into  view.  Suddenly  his  weak  nerves 
were  shaken  by  a  hearty  slap  on  the  shoulder,  and 
turning,  he  beheld  Master  Hugh  Hey  wood.  The  queru- 
lous complaint  died  on  his  lips,  as  Heywood  jocularly 
rallied  him  on  his  contemplative  habits. 

"  Why,  man !  thou  livest  here  like  a  hermit,  and  hast 
no  comfort  in  thy  old  age !  .  Give  up  thy  post  to  Wil- 
liam, and  take  the  elbow-seat  on  the  settle,  nearest  the 
hearth,  in  the  servants'  hall — their  waggery  will  cheer 
thee.  Remember  the  old  song — 

"  After  drudgerie, 
When  they  be  werie, 
Then  to  be  merie, 


THE    JESUIT.  37 

Servants  in  one  house  to  bee, 

To  laugh  and  sing  they  be  free  ; 

With  chip  and  cherie, 

High  derie  derie, 

Trill  on  the  berie, 

And  lovingly  to  agree.'  " 

"  An'  thou  wert  not  a  heretic,  Master  Heywood,"  said 
the  old  man,  "  I  would  give  thee  my  confidence." 

Master  Heywood  knew  full  well  by  the  tone  in  which 
this  was  uttered,  that  Arthur  desired  to  bestow  his  confi- 
dence, and  only  stood  out  for  a  little  solicitation.  He 
soon  enticed  the  porter  to  unlock  the  storehouse  of  his 
experience ;  how  he  had  been  gatekeeper  thirty-five 
years,  next  St.  Martin's  Eve  ;  how  staunchly  he  held 
his  post  the  time  of  the  great  flood,  when  the  waters 
washed  the  keystone  of  the  causeway  arch,  and  pro- 
visions were  handed  from  a  boat  into  the  chamber  they 
then  occupied.  Here  he  had  lived — here  he  would  die  ! 
He  loved  to  see  the  deer  peep  timidly  from  covert,  on 
the  confines  of  their  woody  territory,  starting  at  the 
slightest  sound  on  the  highway,  crushing  the  underwood 
in  retreat,  midst  the  music  of  the  leader's  bell.  He 
could  tell,  he  said,  the  faith  of  every  traveller  as  he 
emerged  from  the  forest ;  whether  he  were  of  the  old 
or  the  new  religion. 

"  Now  fathom  me  that !"  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
triumphantly. 

Master  Heywood  shook  his  head ;  he  could  not  guess 
a  man's  faith  from  the  cut  of  his  doublet  or  the  colour  of 
his  trunk-hose. 

Old  Arthur  pointed  in  great  glee,  (for  he  was  growing 
4 


38  THE    OPAL. 

merry,  as  was  his  wont  to  an  attentive  listener,)  to  a 
ruined  cross  by  the  wayside,  between  the  bridge  and 
forest-growth.  St.  Mary's  Cross  was  a  dilapidated 
structure,  circular,  tapering  to  a  point,  like  the  spire 
of  a  gothic  cathedral,  with  niches  near  the  base,  occu- 
pied by  the  mutilated  figures  of  saints.  He  knew,  by 
sure  token,  every  man's  creed  by  his  behaviour  in 
passing  the  old  relique. 

"  Then  I'll  e'en  put  thy  skill  to  the  test,  for  here  come 
horsemen  !"  exclaimed  Master  Hugh. 

A  cavalier,  attended  by  a  solitary  lackey,  was  in 
sight.  On  approaching  the  cross,  the  former  drew  up, 
and  surveyed  the  ruins  with  respectful  gaze,  then  jogged 
on ;  the  attendant  also  paused,  rode  slowly  in  face  of 
the  structure,  and  quickened  into  the  old  pace.  Arthur 
and  Master  Heywood  exchanged  glances. 

"  Thou  knowest  now  the  secret,"  said  the  porter ; 
"  but  I'll  down  to  the  gate,  for  I  trow  the  stranger  has 
business  at  the  Hall." 

"  Open  it  not,  till  he  answer  for  himself,"  cried  Hey- 
wood, as  Arthur  was  hobbling  down  the  stone  steps. 

The  cavalier  appeared  a  man  not  far  short  of  thirty — 
well  armed,  well  mounted,  of  gay  and  nonchalant  bear- 
ing— such  as  the  sober  citizen  of  that  day  would  pro- 
nounce a  court-gallant ;  his  eye  was  lit  up  with  auda- 
city, reckless  of  where  and  on  whom  its  glances  fell ; 
his  apparel  was  rich,  partially  concealed  by  a  travelling- 
mantle,  which,  sometimes  blown  aside,  displayed  a  lining 
of  ermine,  in  the  construction  of  the  sumptuary-laws 
denoting  baronial  rank.  He  dashed  on  the  bridge  with 
a  clatter  which  awoke  loud  echoes  from  the  old  stones, 


THE    JESUIT.  39 

and  drove  the  owlets  screeching  from  their  nest ;  but 
the  gate  was  closed,  and  the  gallant  steed  thrown  on  its 
haunches.  The  stranger,  with  reddening  anger,  looked 
around,  and  espying  the  face  of  Master  Hugh  at  the 
chamber  above,  with  chin  resting  on  the  window-coping, 
looking  carelessly,  and  quietly,  on  the  scene  beneath, 
shook  his  riding-whip,  crying, 

"  How  now,  varlet, — art  mocking  me  ?" 
"  Art  thou  ignorant  of  our  customs,  Sir  Stranger  ?" 
asked  Master  Hey  wood  ;   "  hast  not  heard  the  legend 
of  the  Hall  1 

'  At  Marston-fbrd  where  the  stream  is  deep, 
The  lonely  warder  his  vigil  doth  keep, 
No  visor'd  knight,  or  eke  baron  bold, 
May  pass  the  bridge-ward  with  name  untold.'  " 

"  A  murrain  seize  thee  !"  exclaimed  the  cavalier  in 
extreme  vexation.  "  Who  could  have  thought,  when 
Sir  Edward  Marston  crossed  the  seas,  he  would  have 
left  his  fool  behind !  I  am  Sir  Henry  Stonor,  and 
promise  thee  a  sound  cudgelling,  if  thou  comest  not 
down  at  the  word." 

"  Knowest  thou  not,  Sir  Henry  Stonor,"  rejoined  the 
unmoved  Master  Heywood,  "  that  by  an  act,  made  and 
passed  in  the  third  year  of  the  reign  of  our  sovereign 
lady  the  Queen,  that  no  one  under  the  rank  of  baron 
shall  wear  the  ermine-fur  ?" 

Here  the  speaker  withdrew  his  head  quickly,  for  the 
knight  in  his  rage  seized  a  matchlock-pistol  from  the 
holster. 


40  THE    OPAL. 

"Dost  bar,  or  unbar?"  he  cried,  with  suppressed 
breath. 

"  Prefer  thy  petition  to  the  porter  below,"  cried  Hugh, 
exposing  his  head  for  a  moment,  and  only  for  a  moment, 
"  whom  thou  shouldst  have  asked  at  first." 

Sir  Henry,  looking  where  he  had  not  before  looked, 
beheld  old  Arthur  behind  the  grating  in  the  wall. 

"  Open  the  gate,  old  dotard,  to  Sir  Henry  Stonor," 
exclaimed  the  knight,  "  or  thy  gray  hairs  shall  not 
protect  thy  shoulders." 

When  Arthur  made  free  passage,  Sir  Henry,  in  pass- 
ing, frowned  angrily,  crying,  "  Art  mad,  that  I  should 
bide  on  the  bridge  ?" 

"  I  pray  thee,  good  Sir  Henry,"  said  the  old  man, 
cautiously  keeping  out  of  reach  of  the  riding  thong, 
"  respect  our  ancient  custom !" 

"Who  is  that  springald  in  the  tower?"  asked  the 
knight  sternly,  checking  the  rein. 

"  The  worshipful  Master  Hugh  Hey  wood,  nephew  of 
our  late  Mistress  Priscilla  Marston,  may  it  please  ye, 
Sir  Henry,"  rejoined  the  porter. 

The  knight  rode  haughtily  onward,  without  remark  or 
acknowledgement.  Master  Hugh,  having  enjoyed  the 
rather  perilous  amusement  of  angering  the  cavalier,  did 
not  care  to  face  the  reproaches  of  his  quondam  gossip, 
the  porter,  to  whose .  tower  he  often  strolled  to  while 
away  the  hours,  but  slipping  away  quietly,  continued 
his  walk  through  the  park. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  neglected  place.  Sir  Edward  Mar- 
ston, lord  of  the  domain,  a  rigid  Romanist,  had  so 
deeply  compromised  himself  in  opposing  the  succession 


THE    JESUIT.  41 

of  Elizabeth,  that  prudence  rendered  a  sojourn  abroad 
a  matter  of  necessity.  It  was  not  her  grace's  policy  to 
drive  the  Catholics  to  despair  ;  Sir  Edward,  and  many 
others  as  deeply  involved,  were  unmolested  in  their 
possessions,  and  though  in  exile,  suffered  to  draw  their 
annual  rent-roll.  Adherence  to  papacy  was  no  state- 
crime  ;  it  was  expected  that  the  old  religion  would  gra- 
dually melt  into  the  new  ;  conformity  was  so  far  from 
being  pressed  that  the  Romanist  and  Protestant  oft  used 
the  same  parish  church — of  course  under  the  tutelage  of 
their  respective  pastors.  But  Philip  of  Spain,  aided  by 
Rome,  and  urged  by  the  vigorous  "  soldiery  of  Jesus," 
the  Jesuits,  through  secret  missionaries  scattered  over 
the  island,  fanned  the  hopes  and  enthusiasm  of  the 
sterner  Catholics  with  expectation  of  promised  invasion. 
That  papal  emissaries  were  secretly  at  work  throughout 
the  land,  was  not  unknown  to  Elizabeth  and  the  nation, 
and  whilst  their  labours  estranged  the  hearts  of  the 
Romanists  from  the  princess  who  so  ably  occupied  the 
throne,  the  evil  was  compensated  by  the  bond  of  union 
and  faith  being  strengthened  between  her  and  her  Pro- 
testant subjects,  by  whom  she  was  beloved  and  revered. 
Sir  Edward  Marston  on  leaving  his  native  land  con- 
signed the  stewardship  of  his  estates  to  a  decayed  kins- 
man, Master  Philip  Marston,  now  resident  at  the  Hall. 
As  Philip,  destitute  of  fortune,  was  forced  to  render  a 
rigorous  settlement  of  the  proceeds,  the  establishment 
was  on  a  very  humble  footing.  A  few  superannuated 
serving-men  there  were,  whom  Sir  Edward  could  not 
dismiss,  who  still  received  the  yearly  coat  and  badge, 
and  fee,  and  ate  from  wooden  platters  in  the  servants' 
4* 


42  THE    OPAL. 

hall,  as  they  had  done  in  their  days  of  lustihood ;  but 
the  gallant  band  of  foresters,  rangers  and  prickers  had 
disappeared  to  eat  the  bread  of  new  masters.  Philip 
was  a  sour,  formal  ascetic,  fretted  by  poverty  and  dis- 
appointment, seeking  consolation  in  the  austerities  of  his 
creed.  He  had  been  once  otherwise,  we  may  presume, 
or  he  would  not  have  married  a  lady  of  the  reformed 
faith.  She  was  long  since  dead,  bequeathing  to  his  care 
their  daughter  Isabel,  and  a  brother's  orphan,  whose 
patrimony  he  had  controlled,  as  guardian,  in  virtue  of  a 
testamentary  disposition  of  the  brother-in-law.  Philip, 
with  the  same  ill  luck  which  attended  all  his  own  affairs, 
and  with  less  justice,  contrived  to  squander  his  ward's 
fortune  in  attempting  to  improve  it.  By  this  delinquency 
the  impoverished  gentleman  was  saddled  with  the  main- 
tenance of  a  comely,  larksome  nephew,  now  three-and- 
twenty — good  at  the  trencher,  moderate,  to  his  credit, 
with  the  wine-pitcher,  excellent  at  the  cross-bow,  to  the 
thinning  of  Sir  Edward's  deer,  and  deplorably  out  of  the 
uncle's  grace  in  being,  like  his  deceased  aunt  and  all 
their  kindred,  a  zealous  Protestant.  This,  we  need 
hardly  say,  was  Master  Hugh,  who,  presuming  on  the 
immunity  of  Protestantism,  was  reckless  in  braving  the 
anger  even  of  so  wealthy  and  powerful  a  knight  as  the 
Romanist  Sir  Henry  Stonor.  Tn  general,  uncle  and 
nephew  jogged  on  together  indifferently  well,  save  on 
one  fearful  occasion,  when  Philip  caught  the  youth 
expounding  to  Isabel  her  mother's  faith.  He  was  bit- 
terly enraged,  threatening  Hugh  with  crushed  bones, 
indeed  utter  annihilation  ;  and  ended  with  ordering  him 
immediately  out  of  doors.  Young  Hey  wood  demurred 


.THE    JESUIT.  43 

to  quit  the  roof  till  justice  had  been  done  in  the  affair  of 
the  dissipated  patrimony.  This  brought  about  recon- 
ciliation. Philip  also  found  his  account  in  having  a 
Protestant  in  the  family  ;  in  acting  as  his  uncle's  repre- 
sentative, the  latter  was  saved  sundry  penalties,  incon- 
veniences, and  some  indignity,  to  which  members  of  the 
Roman  faith  were  subject.  Master  Heywood  was  con- 
tent to  stay,  perhaps  because  he  had  no  other  resort, 
perhaps,  as  some  asserted,  because  the  attraction  of 
living  under  the  same  roof  with  Isabel  was  irresistible. 

Several  hours  elapsed  ere  Hugh  returned  to  the  Hall, 
followed  by  one  of  the  men,  bearing  on  his  shoulders  a 
fine  buck,  slaughtered  in  the  chase.  It  was  fair  apology 
for  absence  long  after  the  usual  hour  of  reassembling 
in  the  evening  ;  but  in  truth,  Master  Hugh  did  not  like 
meeting  with  Sir  Henry,  whom  he  had  so  insolently 
trifled  with,  and  was  both  pleased  and  astonished  to 
learn  that  the  knight  did  not  consort  with  his  host,  but 
took  up  his  quarters  in  a  suite  of  chambers  disused 
since  the  departure  of  Sir  Edward.  But  a  small  part 
of  the  extended  and  irregular  edifice  was  occupied  by 
the  present  family.  The  diminished  state  and  splendour 
of  the  Hall  accorded  with  the  diminished  means  and 
inferior  condition  of  Philip  Marston  who,  but  for  the 
name  he  bore,  would  have  been  held  throughout  the  dis- 
trict as  steward  and  man  of  business,  not  kinsman,  of 
the  absent  knight.  Still  Philip  Marston  was  on  the 
land  and  under  the  roof  which  had  owned  the  name  for 
centuries,  and  even  Heywood,  when  the  first  sensation  of 
delight  in  the  discovery  that  he  should  be  spared  meet- 
ing Sir  Henry  at  table  had  subsided,  and  he  learned 


44  THE    OPAL. 

from  his  uncle's  lips,  what  the  latter  appeared  in  some 
hurry  to  communicate,  that  their  guest  had  come  to 
treat  for  the  purchase  of  several  outlying  farms — as  Sir 
Edward  was  desirous  of  raising  a  large  sum  of  money, 
— even  he,  forgetting  how  much  he  had  been  pleased  in 
looking  vainly  for  the  cavalier's  face  at  the  family 
board,  muttered  that  the  Marstons  and  Heywoods  were 
fitting  society  for  a  Stonor.  Philip's  melancholy  face 
contorted  into  a  grim  smile,  but  his  forehead  was 
flushed,  and  he  evidently  felt  the  nephew's  rebuke. 
Isabel  came  to  her  father's  rescue.  Should  not  her 
cousin,  who  knew  the  plate-chest  of  Marston  Hall  was 
across  the  seas,  rather  be  pleased  they  were  spared  the 
mortification  of  Sir  Henry  beholding  a  scant  table-equip- 
ment? 

"  Certes !  an  excellent,  womanly  reason,"  cried 
Philip,  addressing  his  nephew  more  complacently  than 
usual ;  "  but  in  truth,  Hugh,  I  would  rather  hold  the 
knight  at  distance  till  I  have  fairly  conned  his  offers." 

"  'Tis  an  excellent  flint  that  strikes  fire  from  both  soft 
and  hard  !"  thought  young  Heywood — "  but  there  is 
more  in  this  than  meets  either  the  eye  or  the  ear  !" 

Affairs  remained  many  days  pretty  nigh  in  the  same 
state,  Sir  Henry  occasionally,  as  though  it  were  to  show 
that  privacy  sprung  not  from  disdain  or  contempt  of  his 
entertainers,  eating  at  the  family  board.  Towards  Hey- 
wood he  exhibited  supreme  indifference,  nor  could  the 
latter  glean  whether  the  knight  had  ever  complained 
of  hjs  behaviour,  as  he  never  otherwise  than  by  silent 
aversion  resented  it.  Visits,  in  company  only  with 
Philip,  were  made  to  the  distant  farms,  and  occasionally 


THE    JESUIT.  45 

Philip's  hawk  was  flown,  but  Sir  Henry,  contrary  to 
the  general  habits  of  his  class,  and  in  defiance  of  fine 
weather*  was  very  studiously  inclined,  and  preferred 
the  seclusion  of  the  library,  or  range  of  the  portrait- 
gallery.  Master  Hugh,  however,  was  not  insensible  to 
the  knight's  design  of  sporting,  on  what  he  deemed  his 
own  manor ;  he  witnessed  more  attention  bestowed,  and 
not  always  of  a  refined  and  courteous  nature,  on  Isabel 
than  he  liked  or  thought  even  decorous.  It  was,  to  say 
the  least,  treating  her  as  an  inferior,  as  one  with  whom 
liberties  might  be  taken,  and  both  the  pride  and  jealousy 
of  the  young  man  were  aroused.  Hugh's  intercourse 
with  Isabel  was  the  fascination  of  his  life ;  he  never 
spoke  of  love — her  father's  antipathy  to  the  reformed 
faith,  deepened  by  age  and  blighted  worldly  prospects, 
forbade  hope  of  union,  even  if  poverty  and  dependence 
had  offered  no  bar — yet  he  lived  untroubled  and  serene 
in  the  light  of  her  sunny  smiles,  as  though  such  life 
were  to  last  for  ever. 

Isabel  was  barely  twenty,  a  perfect  specimen  of  the 
English  country  maiden  of  gentle  birth.  A  sunny  cheer- 
fulness dwelt  in  her  eye,  the  roseate  hue  of  health  glowed 
in  a  cheek,  whose  bloom  was  untainted  by  the  sickly 
languor  of  courtly  revel  or  burnt  by  the  sun's  scorching 
rays  to  rivalry  with  the  embrowned  rustic's.  She  shared 
her  cousin's  fate  in  not  escaping  from  the  seductive  in- 
fluence of  their  false  position ;  but  affection  for  Hugh 
was  attempered  by  love  of  her  father,  deep  regard  and 
respect  for  his  wishes,  which,  it  must  be  confessed,  was 
far  from  being  the  case  with  Master  Heywood. 

Time  fled,  and  still  Sir  Henry  departed  not,  although 


46  THE    OPAL. 

Philip  announced  to  his  family,  that  the  knight's  busi- 
ness was  concluded.  Hugh's  jealousy  pointed  angrily 
at  the  cause,  yet  at  times  he  surmised  there  was  a 
mystery  beyond  the  cavalier's  insolent  admiration  of 
Isabel,  which  occasioned  his  visit,  or  at  least  detention. 
Before  even  Sir  Henry^s  arrival,  there  had  not  been 
wanting  secret  conferences  between  father  and  daughter, 
and  a  freemasonry  of  significant  looks,  gestures  and 
monosyllables,  utterly  unintelligible,  to  confound  the 
young  man.  His  jealousy  unawakened,  his  frank  nature 
had  no  inclination  to  pry  into  the  secrets  of  parties  so 
closely  connected  as  Isabel  and  his  uncle.  But  the  case 
was  now  different,  with  a  rival  in  the  field.  Could  this 
proud  Sir  Henry  stoop  to  win  the  hand  of  the  portionless 
daughter  of  the  poor  Philip  Marston  ?i  It  were  possible 
yet  not  probable.  That  the  knight  aimed  at  luring  her 
heart,  the  sagacity  or  passion  of  young  Heywood  had 
penetrated.  But  her  liand  ?  No  !  jealous  fear  alone 
shook  well-grounded  conviction  of  the  visitor's  dis- 
honourable intentions.  His  happy  self-complacency, 
however,  was  fearfully  disturbed^  he  awoke  to  the  in- 
security of  his  happiness,  and  trembled  when  he  re- 
flected that  proximity  to  and  daily  intercourse  with  the 
object  of  his  affection,  though  it  added  to  the  peril  of 
both,  afforded  no  presage  of  safety. 

The  torture  of  mind  to  which  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  he  was  subjected,  became  in  a  degree  relieved 
by  a  remarkable  incident.  The  door  of  an  adjoining 
chamber  being  partially  open  he  could  hear,  though 
indistinctly,  the  voices  of  the  knight  and  Isabel.  Sir 
Henry's  tone  grew  loud  and  impassioned  ;  an  exclama- 


THE    JESUIT.  47 

tion  escaped  from  the  maiden,  followed  by  a  rapid 
movement  of  feet ;  and  Isabel  rushed  into  Heywood's 
presence,  angry  and  with  flushed  cheek.  She  was 
followed  hastily  by  the  knight,  who  stepped  back  dis- 
concerted and  baffled,  on  beholding  Hugh,  who  con- 
fronted him  steadily.  He  cast  a  threatening  glance  on 
the  young  man  as  he  strode  by,  and  bowing  to  Isabel 
as  he  quitted  the  room,  expressed  regret  that  the  un- 
courtly  habits  of  country  places  encouraged  eavesdrop- 
ping. Master  Hey  wood  turned  to  the  affrighted  damsel, 
who  greeted  his  prompt  interference  with  a  sweet  smile, 
a  pledge  to  the  enraptured  lover  of  future  confidence. 
Delicacy,  for  which  perhaps  the  contemptuous  cavalier 
would  not  have  given  the  pert  youngster,  as  he  deemed 
him,  credit,  and  by  which  he  won  the  secret  thanks  of 
his  mistress,  withheld  any  allusion  to  their  visiter's  con- 
duct. He  gloried  in  the  knight's  discomfiture,  was 
proud  of  the  protection  he  had  afforded,  but  seeing 
Isabel's  confusion,  withdrew,  as  he  said,  to  prove  the 
strength  of  his  new  cross-bow. 

Hugh's  sagacity  failed  not  to  perceive  that  all  save 
himself  were  subjected  by  some  strange  mystery  to  the 
caprice  of  their  proud,  haughty  guest.  Isabel  treated 
him  with  deferential  respect,  yet,  whenever  possible, 
shunned  his  presence.  Even  Philip  seemed  annoyed, 
yet  without  remedy,  at  his  prolonged  stay.  As  the 
maiden  was  on  her  guard,  no  good  and  much  harm 
might  result  from  acquainting  his  uncle  with  the  knight's 
discourtesy,  and  in  the  peculiar  position  in  which  he 
himself  stood  to  Isabel,  complaint  might  give  his  inter- 
ference a  colouring  and  lead  to  results  for  which  he 


48  THE    OPAL. 

was  not  yet  prepared.  Silence,  and  sharp  watch  on 
their  visiter,  he  deemed  best  policy;  it  found  favour, 
also,  with  the  maiden,  which  he  was  made  sensible  of, 
and  other  argument  were  not  needed. 

It  happened  one  evening  that  Hugh,  quitting  the 
family  table,  encountered  a  serving-man  returning  from 
the  knight's  quarters  with  supper  untouched.  Singular  ! 
thought  Master  Heywood.  That  very  day  he  had  over- 
heard a  forester  relate  to  one  of  the  domestics  that  he 
had  seen  the  rich  Papist  Sir  Henry,  who  came  to  buy 
the  estate,  riding  with  a  stranger  whose  face  was  almost 
concealed  by  a  hood.  The  imagination  of  our  lover 
was  instantly  filled  with  the  image  of  Isabel  carried  off 
by  the  retainers  of  the  knight,  shrieking  in  vain  the 
name  of  her  cousin  Hugh.  Cooler  moments  succeeded, 
but  Sir  Henry's  untasted  tray  of  forest  delicacies  car- 
ried back  to  the  larder  !  'Twas  abstinence  unaccounta- 
ble, and  foreshadowed  evil  design.  Sleep  was  an  im- 
possibility, and  come  what  might,  he  was  bent  on 
allaying  or  satisfying  suspicion.  That  very  hour  the 
faithless  guest  and  his  crew  might  be  lying  in  wait  to 
force  her  chamber  and  carry  off  his  hapless  cousin ! 
Sir  Henry's  domestic,  he  found,  had  retired  earlier  than 
usual  to  his  sleeping  quarters  in  the  ante-room  of  the 
suite  appointed  to  his  master.  This  arrangement  was  a 
precautionary  measure  to  prevent  surprise,  a  relique  of 
feudal  manners.  Pride  and  caution  made  Hugh  chary 
of  inquiries  of  the  Marston  serving-men  respecting  the 
whereabouts  of  this  mysterious  guest,  but  the  little  he 
gleaned  increased  his  irritating  suspicion.  He  resolved 
to  keep  watch  in  a  music  balcony,  which  overhung  one 


THE    JESUIT.  49 

end  of  the  long  portrait-gallery,  and  commanded  a  view 
of  the  door  of  the  knight's  sleeping-chamber.  The 
gallery  had  been  disused  during  Sir  Edward's  absence, 
but  there  was  no  difficulty  in  gaining  access  to  the  bal- 
cony above,  by  a  secondary  staircase,  without  chance 
of  coming  in  contact  with  Sir  Henry  or  his  lackey. 
Thither  he  repaired,  with  no  other  company  than  the 
grim  portraits  of  Isabel's  ancestors,  over  whose  warlike 
effigies  the  moonlight,  streaming  from  the  opposite  win- 
dows, cast  an  uncertain  light.  Superstition  was  strong, 
but  love  was  stronger,  and  the  young  man  could  not 
drive  away  the  constantly  agonizing  thought  that  the 
licentious  Romanist,  whose  reputation  both  abroad  and 
at  home  was  far  from  pure,  had  drawn  into  the  vicinity 
of  the  Hall  retainers  or  hired  associates  with  intention 
of  carrying  off  the  maiden. 

Busy  with  these  thoughts,  which  he  made  coincide 
with  the  knight's  actions,  he  was  startled  by  the  sudden 
opening  of  Sir  Henry's  door,  and  by  the  knight  in 
person  issuing  forth  ;  not  booted,  spurred  and  armed,  as 
he  expected,  prepared  for  abduction,  flight  and  resistance 
of  rescue,  but  wrapped  in  a  loose  velvet-gown,  fastened 
with  girdle  and  jewelled  clasp.  Hugh  held  his  breath, 
and,  crouching  low,  watched  the  motions  of  his  rival. 
The  latter  advanced  carelessly,  lamp  in  hand,  as  little 
suspicious  of  being  observed  as  when  locked  up  in  his 
own  dormitory.  Halfway  down  the  gallery  he  lifted  the 
tapestry  which,  falling,  concealed  him  from  further 
view  ;  a  slight  noise  was  heard  and,  as  Hugh  thought, 
the  voice  of  a  stranger  was  audible. 

A  bare  half  hour  our  spy  waited,  irresolute  of  action, 
5 


50  THE    OPAL. 

fearing  the  knight's  return,  pondering  over  the  strange 
manner  of  his  exit,  and  of  the  unknown  or  concealed 
region  into  which  he  had  wandered. 

"  If  these  old  graybeards,"  thought  Master  Hugh, 
glancing  at  the  portraits,  "  permit  a  Stonor,  guilty  of 
unknightly  conduct  to  one  of  their  race,  to  penetrate  the 
mysteries  of  the  old  den  without  having  senses  scared, 
or  breaking  his  neck,  why  I,  Hugh  Heywood,  con- 
nected with  the  stock,  and  wishing  closer  alliance,  may 
follow  unharmed,  and  I  hope  without  dread  of  spell  or 
wizardry,  this  proud  man's  footsteps  !  And  so  aid  my 
courage,  ye  Marstons  of  eld  !" 

This  soliloquy  was  partly  jocular,  partly  earnest,  for 
our  adventurer,  though  he  had  shaken  off  the  trammels 
of  papistical  superstition,  could  not  yet  wholly  rid  him- 
self of  compunctious  doubt,  (fruit  of  early  lore,)  of 
witchcraft,  and  other  unearthly  influence,  that  by  ven- 
turing where  he  had  no  right  to  stray,  and  penetrating  a 
mystery  which  lay  not  in  his  duty  to  fathom,  he  might 
incur  from  harsh  sprite,  an  untoward,  perhaps  mortal 
disaster,  or  as  had  been  oft  told  at  the  winter  fireside,  if 
the  spirit  of  the  haunt  were  frolicsome  only,  broken 
head  or  bruised  limbs  might  be  his  lot. 

By  aid  of  a  strong  cord,  which  held  in  festoons  the 
faded  drapery  of  the  balcony,  he  lowered  himself  silently 
to  the  gallery  beneath,  and  disposing  it  in  such  fashion 
that  he  could  reascend  hastily,  if  necessary,  he  crept 
towards  the  spot  where  the  knight  had  disappeared. 
Removing  gently  the  tapestry,  a  crevice  in  the  panelling 
was  visible  by  the  reflection  of  strong  light  within. 
Hugh,  on  his  knees,  endeavoured  to  scan  the  interior, 


THE    JESUIT.  51 

ere  he  ventured  to  proceed  further.  It  was  a  providen- 
tial caution.  The  knight,  in  entering,  having  omitted  to 
close  the  sliding  door,  sufficient  space  was  there  for  the 
inquisitive  youth  to  satisfy  himself  that  our  Romanist's 
abstinence  arose  not  from  imposition  of  fast,  or  sickly 
appetite. 

It  was  a  small,  rudely-fashioned  chamber,  into  which 
Master  Hugh  peered,  the  stone  walls  carelessly  hung 
with  drapery  ;  in  one  corner  a  pallet-bed,  in  another 
a  book-shelf,  well  furnished  ;  from  the  ceiling  a  lamp 
suspended  by  a  chain,  and  beneath,  a  table  covered  with 
the  remains  of  a  supper  which,  our  daring  youth  was 
prepared  to  swear,  had  been  partly  obtained  by  the  skill 
of  his  own  cross-bow.  The  knight  needeth  no  descrip- 
tion ;  opposite,  sat  a  man  whose  age  might  be  forty,  or 
less,  whose  plain  habiliments  and  close-cut  hair  bespoke 
the  clerical  profession.  The  face  was  singular,  not  from 
the  contour  of  the  features,  which  were  regular  without 
being  handsome,  but  the  restless,  unsteady,  wandering 
glance  of  the  full-orbed  eye.  It  glanced  every  where 
without  repose,  and  revealed  what  the  oily  tongue  sought 
to  conceal.  It  could  scarcely  fail  inspiring  mistrust  even 
with  the  inexperienced  ;  but  nature,  in  part  compensa- 
tion, had  bestowed  a  subtlety  of  speech  which  laboured, 
not  often  unsuccessfully,  in  repairing  the  mischief. 
Hugh,  an  attentive  listener,  was  fascinated  by  the  skill 
with  which  the  stranger  handled  every  topic  of  dis- 
course, nor  was  he  unawed  by  the  splendour  of  worldly 
connexions  which  his  anecdotes  betrayed.  He  had  sat 
in  the  cabinet  of  Philip  of  Spain,  alone  with  the  monarch, 


52  THE    OPAL. 

copied  instructions  from  the  Pope's  own  lips,  mingled 
familiarly  with  the  mightiest  princes  of  Christendom — 
in  a  word,  was  a  thorough  and  accomplished  Jesuit,  one 
of  the  impiously  styled  "  soldiery  of  Jesus,"  now  en- 
gaged in  secret  crusade  against  the  faith  and  temporal 
liberties  of  the  English  people.  Further,  our  listener 
gleaned,  to  his  surprise,  that  the  Jesuit  had  been  con- 
cealed upwards  of  three  months  at  Marston,  correspond- 
ing during  this  time  with  all  the  more  violent  and  mal- 
content Catholic  families  of  the  North,  preparing  them 
by  counsel  and  exhortation  to  cooperation  with  the  vast 
designs  of  Philip  against  Elizabeth  and  her  reformed 
subjects.  Sir  Henry  Stonor  had  come  purposely  to 
confer  with  Philip's  emissary,  under  colour  of  making 
purchases  of  land,  and  with  sanction  of  the  exile,  Sir 
Edward.  Much  as  Master  Hugh  was  astonished  by 
these  incidental  revelations,  he  was  yet  more  surprised 
by  the  priest's  accurate  knowledge  of  the  character  of 
every  member  of  the  household,  and  of  passing,  daily 
events.  Horror  lent  effect  to  the  discovery,  that  not 
only  Philip  Marston,  but  Isabel,  were  in  constant  com- 
munication with  the  recluse  ;  father  or  daughter  inva- 
riably brought  the  uncooked  food,  which  the  priest's 
contrivances  and  appliances,  within  the  narrow  circuit 
of  his  den,  converted  into  a  delicate  repast.  Occasion- 
ally, for  the  sake  of  health,  the  Jesuit,  aided  by  Philip's 
personal  services — of  course  unseen — rode  forth  into 
the  adjoining  forest,  and  in  its  recesses  had  interviews 
with  various  Romanists  of  the  country.  The  Jesuit,  as 
became  the  society  he  mingled  with,  was  no  ascetic,  but, 


THE    JESUIT.  53 

on  the  contrary,  a  lover  of  good  cheer,  a  candidate  for 
ladies'  favours,  to  relieve  dry  studies  and  the  tortuous 
path  of  politics. 

Isabel  was  the  theme  of  conversation.  The  priest 
grew  loud  in  her  praise,  lauded  every  charm  and  virtue, 
save  her  coyness. 

"  Wert  thou  not  closely  cabined  here,"  remarked  the 
knight,  in  a  tone  between  jest  and  anger,  "  I  would  not 
brook  thy  impotent  rivalry." 

"  I  would  that  she  were  cabined  here,"  observed  the 
Jesuit;  "but  our  prim  Phillis  never  ventures  into  the 
gallery,  if  I  be  strolling,  but  leaves  the  viands  at  the 
door.  But  patience !  Despite  thy  liberty,  I  will  yet 
match  thy  wooing,  Sir  Knight !" 

"  Thou  match  my  wooing !"  exclaimed  Stonor,  an- 
grily, "  what  meanest  thou  ?" 

"  That  the  field  is  open  to  us  both,"  replied  the  priest. 

"  None  of  thy  garb  could  win  the  girl,"  remarked  Sir 
Henry,  affecting  scorn,  "  without  first  polluting  her  soul, 
or  she  would  not  listen." 

"  She  could  confess  to  the  priest  with  safer  conscience 
and  reputation,  than  follow  to  the  camp  or  the  town 
such  as  thou  !"  said  the  Jesuit  quietly  ;  "  but  let  us  end 
the  dispute  by  toasting  on  our  knees,  Isabel  Marston, 
and  success  to  him  who  wins  her  !" 

And  so  saying,  the  Jesuit,  bumper  in  hand,  dropped 
on  one  knee. 

"  Bend  thy  knees  where  thou  oughtest,  on  the  bare 
stones  of  thy  cell,  and  not  before  me,"  cried  Sir  Henry, 
in  the  extremity  of  rage  and  jealousy,  dashing  the  cup 
5*  ' 


54  THE    OPAL. 

out  of  the  Jesuit's  hand,  "  and  leave  to  men  of  the  world 
worldly  pursuits." 

The  priest  arose  slowly,  and  brushing  off  the  dust 
from  his  garment,  perhaps  to  allow  time  for  passion  to 
subside,  said  calmly, 

"Thou  well  knowest  the  day,  Henry  Stonor,  ere 
Edward  Sabine  betook  himself  to  Holy  Church,  and 
how  he  would  then  have  resented  this  injury,  even  after 
the  fashion  of  the  world  thou  alludest  to.  When  I  took 
vows  I  forswore  personal  quarrel,  tut  the  Church,  and 
the  great  order  to  which  I  belong,  have  been  insulted  in 
my  person  ;  beware  their  resentment !  But  I  love,  thee, 
Harry  Stonor  !  take  till  to-morrow  for  reflection — and 
he  who  brings  contrition  shall  not  go  away  without  for- 
giveness. Benedicite  /" 

There  was  silence  of  many  moments'  duration.  At 
length  the  knight  confessed  his  rash  haste  and  folly, 
and  prayed  it  might  be  even  as  the  Jesuit  desired,  that 
the  maiden  should  be  to  him  who  won  her ;  but  Sabine, 
with  assumption  of  calm  superiority,  shook  his  head. 
He  would  receive,  he  said,  no  hasty  repentance,  which 
the  Church  could  not  value.  To-morrow  the  visit  of 
Sir  Henry  Stonor  might  prove  reconciliatory. 

Young  Hey  wood,  by  this  hint,  judged  he  had  listened 
long  enough  for  his  own  safety,  and  immediately  with- 
drew. He  had  barely  time  to  scale  the  balcony  by 
means  of  the  knotted  cord,  ere  the  displaced  tapestry 
exposed  the  figure  of  the  knight,  who  slowly  withdrew 
to  his  own  chamber. 

No  goblin   or  sprite  had  witched  Master  Hugh,  for 


THE    JESUIT.  55 

the  scene  was  too  real  to  pass  for  delusion.  What  a 
combinatio  :  of  state  treason,  domestic  treachery  and 
licentious  hypocrisy  was  here  laid  bare  !  He  hied  to  his 
dormitory,  but  could  not  sleep,  and  with  the  first  blush 
of  dawn  was  away  to  the  forest-glades,  that  he  might 
commune  with  himself — his  troubled  countenance  unob- 
served by  prying  eyes — and  there,  in  solitude,  shape 
out  a  course  of  action. 

"  What  a  perplexing  fate  !"  was  his  exclamation,  after 
much  reflection.  He  had  lifted  the  veil  of  a  fearful 
mystery,  which  he  could  not  disclose,  for  he  was  himself 
within  pale  of  the  circle.  His  sovereign,  his  country, 
the  altars  of  his  faith,  sealed  with  the  recent  blood  of 
martyrs,  were  involved  in  one  common  danger ;  but 
the  same  breath  which  revealed  the  plotting,  attainted 
the  father  of  Isabel — nay,  Isabel  herself — of  treason  ! 
Must  he  then  hold  silence?  Tears  came,  but  did  not 
relieve  the  perplexity. 

If  he  warned  the  father  of  the  meditated  dishonour 
on  Isabel,  the  ascetic  Romanist  was  so  linked  and  in- 
volved in  the  same  treason — though  perhaps  support- 
ing a  subordinate  and  more  harmless  part — with  those 
who  sought  to  do  him  wrong,  that  exposure  might  be 
attended  with  the  effect  only  of  removing  a  watchful 
and  zealous,  though  unsuspected  guardian,  without  re- 
medying the  evil  and  danger,  by  which  his  cousin  was 
threatened.  Another  course,  though  only  likely  to  be 
adopted  by  a  more  romantic  and  inexperienced  person- 
age than  our  sagacious,  though  provincial-bred  Master 
Hugh,  was  adopting  the  chivalric  expedient  of  notify- 
ing the  knight  and  his  clerical  rival,  that  he  had  over- 


66  THE    OPAL. 

heard  their  designs  on  Isabel,  and  was  prepared  at  all 
hazards  to  defeat  them,  but  would  make  no  other  use  of 
his  discovery  than  to  shield  the  lady.  A  moment's  re- 
flection, that  life  would  be  worth  small  purchase  were 
it  known  to  the  unhesitating  emissary  of  Rome  that  he 
had  penetrated  his  inner  designs,  and  that  on  his  breath 
depended  escape  from  the  scaffold,  and  the  idea  was 
summarily  dismissed. 

The  only  practicable  course — though  it  weighed  heavy 
on  his  conscience  that  in  concealing  treason  he  par- 
ticipated in  the  crime — was  by  adopting  a  system  of 
vigilant  surveillance  over  the  actions  of  the  knight  and 
around  the  mysterious  "priest's  chamber."  Isabel,  as 
the  Jesuit  confessed,  was  too  guarded  to  place  herself 
within  his  reach,  and  of  the  knight  she  had  already  ex- 
perienced sufficing  specimen  of  his  discourtesy  to  place 
reliance  on  his  loyalty.  Through  this  middle  yet  ardu- 
ous course  he  resolved  to  steer,  and,  if  possible  without 
betraying  them  to  the  law,  teach  this  pair  of  malignants 
to  rue  practices  on  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman,  though 
he  were  impoverished  and  she  portionless.  To  guard 
against  sudden  abduction  he  contrived,  under  pretence 
of  chastising  forest  and  game  depredators,  to  draw  under 
immediate  control  three  of  the  lustiest  and  most  coura- 
geous serving-men,  well-armed,  and  ever  prepared  to 
obey  a  sudden  call.  Meanwhile  days  flew  on,  which 
brought  nothing  more  remarkable  than  increasing  evi- 
dence of  Philip  Marston's  secret  annoyance  and  won- 
derment that  the  knight  departed  not,  and  in  Isabel, 
more  undisguised  solicitude  to  be  rid  of  their  guests. 
Often  Hugh  felt  inclined  to  unburthen  his  mind  to  her, 


THE    JESUIT.  57 

but  was  withheld  by  considerations  of  delicacy  ;  he  saw 
how  reluctantly  she  seconded  her  father's  secret  hospi- 
tality, yet  how  closely  and  shrewdly  she  had  avoided 
risk  of  betraying  the  presence  of  the  concealed  guest, 
even  to  her  cousin  and  her  lover. 

One  morn,  whilst  Philip  and  his  daughter  were  gone 
to  hear  mass  at  a  chapel  beyond  the  limits  of  the  chase, 
frequented  by  the  Romanists  of  the  neighbourhood,  who 
preferred  attending  public  service  of  their  worship 
rather  than  incur  the  odium  of  harbouring  priests  in 
their  houses  and  subjecting  themselves  to  domiciliary 
visits — for  the  practices  and  designs  of  travelling  Jesuits 
were  not  unknown  to  Elizabeth's  ministers — one  of 
Hugh's  selected  forest-rangers  came  in  great  haste  to 
inform  him  that  a  stranger  requested  it  to  be  notified 
instantly  to  Master  Heywood  and  no  other  party,  that 
he  would  do  well  and  wisely  to  repair  immediately, 
with  his  men,  to  the  copse  which  stretched  between  the 
bridge-tower  and  the  Romanist  chapel,  as  a  herd  of 
peasants  and  vagabonds,  from  a  distant  quarter,  were 
making  terrible  havoc  with  the  deer.  The  description 
of  the  stranger  coincided  so  exactly  with  Hugh's  im- 
pression of  the  Jesuit's  features  and  person,  that  our 
youth,  calling  to  mind  the  quarrel  between  knight  and 
priest,  more  than  suspected-  that  jealousy  had  induced 
the  latter  to  penetrate  and  take  means  to  frustrate  his 
rival's  plans.  The  story  of  the  deer-slaughtering  was 
certainly  fabulous,  as  Master  Heywood,  with  wonted 
vigilance,  had  followed  Isabel  and  her  father  at  a  dis- 
tance through  this  very  copse,  and  only  returned  when 
he  saw  them  safely  in  advance  on  the  high-road,  and  in 


58  THE   OPAJ,. 

view  of  the  chapel.  What  else  could  be  the  motive  of 
the  fabrication  ?  If  the  Jesuit,  as  he  averred,  knew 
every  thing  that  was  passing  at  Marston  Hall,  the 
arming  of  Hugh's  forest-rangers  would  not  escape  him  ; 
if  the  strange  message  to  the  youth  had  pointed  to  any 
other  quarter  than  the  road  to  the  chapel,  he  would  have 
good  reason  to  suspect  intention  of  sending  him  and  his 
men  out  of  the  way  to  leave  room  for  outrage.  But  as 
the  case  stood,  it  looked  very  like  a  subtle  scheme  of 
the  priest's  to  baffle  a  rival,  without  exposing  his  own 
agency  in  the  affair. 

The  result  confirmed  the  suspicion.  Heywood  arrived 
barely  in  time  to  rescue  his  cousin.  The  sole  attendant, 
an  aged  domestic  of  the  Hall,  was  lying  on  the  ground 
defenceless,  and  Isabel  herself  was  in  the  arms  of  a 
powerful  horseman,  supported  by  three  comrades  as 
well  mounted.  Not  an  instant  to  lose  !  Hugh  and  his 
rangers  were  on  foot,  but  a  bolt  from  the  unerring 
cross-bow  brought  the  proud  steed,  with  its  double 
burthen,  prone  on  the  dust.  The  villains,  foiled  of  their 
intent,  stayed  not  for  fight,  but  fled  through  the  wood. 
Isabel,  bruised  and  disordered  by  the  fall  and  fright, 
could  scarcely  inform  her  rescuer  that  Philip,  at  the 
instance  of  Sir  Henry  Stonor,  stayed  at  the  chapel  to 
confer  with  a  neighbour,  and  that  she,  with  her  solitary 
escort,  started  homeward.  If  other  evidence  were  want- 
ing of  Sir  Henry's  guilt,  Heywood  had  not  far  to  seek 
it.  He  recognised  as  belonging  to  the  knight  a  rich 
housing-cloth  embroidered  with  the  family-arms,  on  the 
back  of  the  expiring  steed,  and  immediately  possessed 
himself  of  it. 


THE    JESUIT.  59 

When  Isabel,  supported  by  Hugh  and  his  followers, 
was  led  to  the  chapel,  where  her  father,  the  knight  and 
several  of  the  Catholic  gentry  were  in  conference — for 
they  subjected  themselves  to  strong  suspicion  by  meet- 
ing in  any  number  at  each  other's  houses, — Sir  Henry 
gave  way  to  the  same  rash  anger  and  precipitate  con- 
duct which  had  before  marked  his  conduct.  Scarcely 
permitting  Hugh  to  complete  a  narration  of  the  circum- 
stances, in  blind  rage  at  being  thwarted  of  his  prize, 
he  denounced  the  story  as  a  fabrication  of  the  young 
man  to  cover  the  theft  and  violent  outrage  he  and  his 
rude  gang  had  committed.  Nor  stopping  here,  he  sum- 
moned a  headborough,  and  gave  Hugh  and  the  rangers 
in  custody  on  charge  of  felony,  in  spite  of  the  remon- 
strance of  Philip  Marston  and  the  tears  of  his  daughter. 
It  must  be  confessed  Master  Hugh  and  his  assevera- 
tions met  with  small  courtesy  from  the  Romanist  neigh- 
bours of  Philip,  who  were  rather  pleased  to  witness  the 
disaster  of  one  who  had  on  many  occasions,  with  the 
recklessness  of  youth,  derided  attachment  to  the  creed 
of  their  forefathers.  It  was  deemed  an  offence  not 
bailable  before  the  headborough,  as  the  stolen  property 
was  found  on  the  person  of  the  accused,  so  our  youth 
and  his  men — the  former  muttering  threats  of  vengeance 
— were  conveyed  to  jail. 

In  prison  the  indignant  Master  Heywood,  losing  pru- 
dence in  thirst  of  revenge,  requested  to  have  interview 
with  the  sheriff,  as  he  had  matter  of  state  importance  to* 
disclose.  The  rank  of  the  prisoner  caused  the  request 
to  be  acceded  to,  although  this  officer  resided  many 
miles  distant  from  the  place  of  confinement.  Delay  of 


60  THE    OPAL. 

a  few  hours,  gave  Hugh  interval  to  deliver  his  dis- 
closures in  such  guise  as  to  convey  the  impression 
that  Isabel  and  her  father  were  not  implicated  in  har- 
bouring the  Jesuit,  who  owed  his  concealment  to  the 
sole  agency  of  Sir  Henry  Stonor.  The  sheriff  deemed 
the  confession  so  important  that  he  immediately  de- 
spatched Master  Heywood,  under  proper  escort,  to  Lon- 
don, that  he  might  repeat  his  tale  before  her  Majesty, 
and  the  privy-council.  Two  hours  only  after  Hey  wood's 
departure,  a  message  came  from  the  knight  expressing 
regret  at  having  made  so  serious  a  charge  against  one  of 
Master  Heywood's  condition,  which  subsequent  circum- 
stances proved  was  totally  unfounded,  and  requesting 
that  the  necessary  legal  forms  might  be  speedily  under- 
gone to  restore  the  accused  to  liberty.  The  sheriff  so 
far  acted  on  this  attestation  as  to  release,  under  proper 
security,  the  four  rangers  imprisoned  at  same  time  with 
Hugh,  and  immediately  went  in  quest  of  the  county- 
lieutenant.  The  consequence  of  this  interview  was  the 
issuing  of  a  warrant  for  the  apprehension  of  the  knight, 
whilst  a  pursuivant,  with  aid,  was  despatched  to  search 
over  Marston  Hall  and  secure  the  Jesuit.  Although 
the  sheriff  had  purposely  concealed  from  Sir  Henry's 
knowledge  the  transmission  of  Heywood  to  London, 
yet  the  knight  was  perhaps  not  wholly  unprepared. 
The  faithful  servant  sleeping  in  the  ante-room  gave 
timely  alarm — for  the  execution  of  the  warrant  was 
purposely  delayed  till  after  nightfall, — and  his  master, 
escaping  by  the  window,  reached  the  stables  and  mount- 
ing a  ready-saddled  horse,  never  rested  till  he  was  safe 
on  shipboard.  Father  Sabine,  the  Jesuit,  it  appeared, 


THE    JESUIT.  61 

never  waited  for  either  pursuivant,  or  sheriff;  the  in- 
considerate arrest  of  Hugh  Heywood  was  sufficient  to 
alarm  the  wily  Jesuit,  and  he  fled,  leaving  behind  in  the 
"priest's  chamber"  books,  wardrobe  and,  (unintention- 
ally,) papers  which  exposed  the  designs  of  his  order, 
and  their  kingly  and  tiara'd  employers. 

Before  the  acute  council  of  Elizabeth,  Master  Hey- 
wood, to  his  grief,  found  he  could  not  persevere  in  the 
exculpation  of  Philip  Marston,  nor  even  effectually 
screen  Isabel ;  but  the  Queen,  who  attended  the  exami- 
nations, felt  for  the  youth,  and  interposing  her  authority, 
declared  that  for  his  sake,  free  pardon  should  be  ex- 
tended to  both  father  and  daughter.  . 

Many  of  the  circumstances  attending  the  Jesuit's  dis- 
covery and  flight,  we  need  not  chronicle,  being  foreign 
to  our  purpose,  but  it  was  proved  that  the  exile,  Sir 
Edward  Marston,  had  sanctioned  the  use  made  of  Mar- 
ston Hall,  more  particularly  in  the  appropriation  of  the 
"  priest's  chamber,"  a  parallel  to  which  may  be  fur- 
nished in  many  an  old  English  mansion.  As  punish- 
ment of  his  treason — and  he  was  but  too  glad  to  escape 
at  the  cost — he  executed  a  long  and  advantageous  lease  of 
the  Hall  and  adjoining  domain,  in  favour  of  Master  Hugh, 
who  shortly  married  the  fair  papist,  Isabel.  The  cove- 
nants of  the  lease  proved  a  lucrative  remuneration  to 
Heywood  ;  and  the  mode  was  specially  pleasing  to  the 
Queen,  as  her  gratitude  was  displayed  without  loss  to 
her  exchequer.  The  results  of  her  Majesty's  reign, 
and  the  permanent  triumph  of  the  Reformation,  may  be 
pursued  with  pleasure  and  improvement  by  every  reader 
of  history. 

6 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  CONSUMPTIVE. 


BY    MRS.  S.  J.  HALE. 

"  THEY  tell  me  spring  is  coming, 

That  buds  begin  to  swell ; 
They  bid  me  trust  the  warm  bright  days 

Will  cheer  and  make  me  well ; 
I  smile  and  answer  playfully, — 

I  would  not  crush  their  hope, 
But  I  feel  the  serpent  at  my  heart 

Which  drinks  its  life-stream  up. 

"  I  heard  a  bird  this  morning, 

Its  song  so  blithe  and  wild, 
It  lulled  me  in  the  sweetest  dream, — 

I  was  again  a  child  ; 
I  bounded  o'er  the  hill-side, 

Like  swallow  on  the  air, 
While  earth  seemed  bright  with  new-wrought  light 

From  beauty  every  where. 

"  The  trees,  like  incense  bearers, 

Showered  blossoms  on  my  head, 
And  flowers,  as  sweet  as  angel's  smiles, 

Bloomed  up  on  every  tread  ; 
The  little  webs  that  veiled  the  grass, 

Were  gemm'd  with  diamond  dew, 
And  o'er  each  rough  unsightly  thing 

Green  life  its  lustre  threw. 


DREAM    OF    THE    CONSUMPTIVE.  63 

"  Like  childhood  in  its  gambols, 

The  merry  mountain  stream 
Came  singing  on — I  heard  my  name, 

And  started  from  my  dream  ! 
Oh  !  'twas  as  though  night's  pall  should  sweep 

Athwart  the  morning  sky  ; 
As  though  heaven's  crystal  gates  should  close 

Before  hope's  lifted  eye  ! 

"  And  yet,  why  should  I  sorrow  ? 

Though  life  seems  glad  and  fair, 
The  brightest  rose  that  blooms  on  earth 

Conceals  some  thorns  of  care  ; 
My  foot  hath  only  stirred  the  flowers, 

But  after  years  might  show 
A  gloomy  path  and  baffled  hopes, 

And  pain,  and  sin,  and  woe. 

"  My  dream  was  kindly  given — 

The  spirit's  parting  sign, 
One  glimpse  of  earth  in  beauty  bright, 

Ere  breaks  the  morn  divine. 
Ah  !  see  the  skies  are  parting  now, 

A  holier  light  is  shed — 
I  come,  I  come!" — and  that  fair  girl 

Was  gathered  to  the  dead ! 


RELIGIOUS  BIOGRAPHY. 


BY  W.  A.  JONES. 


WE  believe  Dr.  Johnson  was  the  first  critic  to  complain 
of  the  penury  of  English  biography.  It  was  a  com- 
plaint that  savoured  more  of  hastiness  and  ignorance 
than  the  Doctor's  contemporary  admirers  would  have 
been  willing  to  allow  any  reviewer  to  discover  in  him, 
but  still  it  was  such  ;  and  now  that  every  pretender  to 
criticism  makes  it  a  point  to  beard  the  rough  but  manly 
old  dogmatist,  we  may  allow  ourselves  the  privilege  of 
picking  an  additional  flaw  in  his  critical  reputation 
(almost  worn  out  by  repeated  attacks).  It  is  certain,  for 
his  undoubted  vigour  and  ability,  no  writer  of  eminence 
ever  made  so  many  and  such  gross  critical  blunders,  as 
Doctor  Johnson.  On  real  life  and  domestic  morals  ; 
the  character  and  manners  of  the  Londoners ;  the 
hypocrisies  of  men  of  the  world ;  the  thin-skinned  sen- 
timentalities of  pretenders  to  sentiment  and  criticism,  he 
exhibited  an  acuteness  of  observation,  a  comprehensive- 
ness of  judgment,  and  pungency  of  satire,  that  have 
never  been  surpassed.  But  in  the  field  of  literary 
criticism,  requiring  finer  tact  and  a  nicer  perception,  the 
grossness  of  his  senses,  no  less  than  the  obtuseness  of  his 


RELIGIOUS    BIOGRAPHY.  65 

taste,  rendered  him  unfit,  physically  and  intellectually, 
to  judge  of  poets  and  men  of  fancy. 

In  the  rich  territory  of  old  English  literature,  there 
is  not,  perhaps,  a  more  fruitful  province  than  that  of 
biography,  not  only  in  the  classic  form  of  lives,  but 
also  memoirs,  diaries  and  autobiography.  It  is  true 
the  lives  most  generally  read  at  present,  were  written 
either  during  the  lifetime  or  since  the  death  of  Johnson  ; 
as  in  the  former  period  the  classic  lives  of  Goldsmith 
and  Johnson,  and  the  memoirs  of  Cumberland,  and  from 
that  period  to  the  present  day,  among  heaps  of  wretched 
compilations,  we  must  distinguish  the  first  book  of  the 
kind  in  the  world,  Boswell's  Johnson,  the  learned  auto- 
biography of  Gibbon,  the  simple  yet  fascinating  lives  of 
Hume  and  Franklin,  honest  self-painters ;  the  classic 
compendiums  of  Southey,  the  lives  of  Burns  by  Currie 
and  Lockhart,  and  the  minor  sketches  of  Irving.  The 
latest  permanent  work  of  this  class,  is  the  Memoirs  of 
Leigh  Hunt.  And  yet  by  far  the  richest  treasures  of 
English  biography  are  to  be  found  among  the  antiqua- 
rian volumes  of  the  old  English  library.  The  best  of 
these  form  a  choice  list ;  classic  to  this  day.  There  are 
the  lives  by  Burnet,  of  Hale  and  Rochester ;  the  austere, 
incorruptible  judge  and  pure  citizen,  and  the  lively,  vola- 
tile wit  and  libertine  subsiding  into  a  sober,  earnest 
Christian.  Walton's  lives  are  too  well  known  to  dilate 
upon  the  heroes  of  them  at  present,  yet  what  a  noble 
company  of  poets,  divines  and  Christian  gentlemen  form 
the  subjects  of  his  volumes  ;  Hooker,  and  Wotton,  and 
Donne,  and  Herbert,  and  Sanderson.  Zouch's  life  of 
Walton  himself  is  fit  to  be  included  as  the  humble  com- 
6* 


66  THE    OPAL. 

panion  of  these.  Then  we  have  North's  life  of  Lord 
Guilford,  full  of  lively  personal  strokes  and  characters 
of  the  great  lawyers  of  the  time  of  Charles  II.  and 
James  II.  Fenton's  lives  of  Milton  and  Waller — Fell's 
Hammond,  the  Fenelon  of  the  royalist  divines,  and 
favourite  chaplain  of  Charles  I.,  sharing  his  imprison- 
ment and  dangers.  Among  the  latest  of  the  older  lives, 
Doddridge's  Life  of  Colonel  Gardiner,  of  which  we  shall 
say  more  before  we  conclude. 

Of  autobiographies,  two  are  celebrated,  Lord  Her- 
bert's (the  first  in  English)  and  Clarendon's,  an  appendix, 
as  it  were,  of  his  great  history.  Others,  less  known,  but 
extremely  useful  to  the  historian,  as  Laud's,  Patrick's, 
Ellwood's,  the  Quaker  friend  of  Milton,  &c. 

The  French  have  the  reputation  of  being  the  best 
memoir  writers  in  the  world,  yet  their  most  courtly  wits 
have  not  surpassed  Grammont,  (himself  a  Frenchman,) 
in  his  pictures  of  the  royal  licentiousness  of  the  age  of 
Charles  II.,  and,  on  the  spot,  Pepys  and  Evelyn.  The 
memoirs  of  Colonel  Hutchinson  by  his  wife,  and  of 
Venetia  Digby,  the  beauty  of  her  day,  and  the  popular 
toast,  despite  her  doubtful  reputation,  by  the  quaint 
fantast  Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  are  at  least  a  fair  match  for 
Bassompierre  and  Rochefoucauld.  And  then,  as  reposi- 
tories of  facts  and  personal  circumstances  nowhere  else 
to  be  learned,  we  have  the  elaborate  histories  of  Wood 
and  Fuller,  Spence's  and  Aubrey's  anecdotes,  and  the 
letter  writers,  from  old  Howell  himself  to  Pope  and  his 
friends.  If  such  a  list  looks  like  "  penury,"  we  should 
like  to  learn  the  comparative  scale  by  which  "  wealth" 
is  to  be  adjudged. 


EELIGIOU8    BIOGRAPHY.  67 

A  fair  proportion  of  the  old  lives  are  those  of  good 
Christians  without  pretence,  and  fine  scholars  without 
presumption.  Most  of  them,  too,  have  an  additional 
value  as  models  for  conduct :  Rochester  and  Gardiner 
being  the  sole  instances  of  "  men  that  need  repentance," 
and  they  both  converted  in  the  heyday  of  the  vicious 
career  in  which  they  were  embarked. 

So  much  by  way  of  preface — a  long  introduction  to  a 
brief  article.  We  have  selected  this  topic  to  point  out  the 
prevalent  defects,  in  almost  every  work  of  the  kind ; 
defects,  too,  springing  from  the  best  of  motives,  and 
more  easily  discovered  than  corrected.  In  the  best  of 
the  old  lives  we  find  this  ever-recurring  defect :  a  desire 
to  paint  in  the  hero  of  biography  a  perfect  man  ;  a  ten- 
dency to  exaggerate  individual  and  particular  merits,  by 
the  force  of  contrast  with  inferior  traits  in  much  inferior 
characters.  The  writers  of  lives,  in  all  times,  have  been 
too  sparing  of  the  shade  in  their  portraits.  A  -profusion 
of  light  falling  upon  the  admirable  virtues,  allows  no 
room  for  the  exhibition  of  defects.  Every  trait  is 
heightened ;  every  characteristic  marked  with  an  em- 
phasis, seldom  found  in  nature.  The  subjects  of  bio- 
graphy, like  the  heroes  of  novels,  are  too  often, 

"  Faultless  monsters  whom  the  world  ne'er  saw." 

This  disgusts  the  thoughtful  reader,  whether  young 
or  old  ;  for  the  youthful  student  soon  finds  these  pictures 
disproved  in  real  life,  and  the  sage  knows  their  unreality 
while  he  is  perusing  the  page.  In  the  older  lives,  in  all 
of  those  to  which  we  have  referred,  a  saving  clause  may 


68  THE    OPAL. 

be  inserted,  that  the  subjects  of  the  writers  were  all  of 
them  men  of  that  eminence  that  either  extravagant  praise 
or  excessive  censure  soon  corrected  itself.  For  one  would 
report  differently  of  their  lives  and  actions  from  another, 
and  hence  a  balance  might  easily  be  struck  between 
them.  And  besides,  in  extenuation,  we  may  offer  the 
best  apology  for  the  biographer,  that  his  hero  was  often 
a  character  so  fascinating,  viewed  as  a  whole,  that  it 
was  very  excusable  to  overlook  minor  errors  and  petty 
defects.  All  of  Walton's  characters,  for  instance,  inevi- 
tably seduce  a  writer  into  encomium,  when  he  should  be 
writing  impartially ;  and  it  is  pleasanter,  as  well  as 
easier,  to  pen  an  eulogy  rather  than  a  life.  This  was 
the  fault  that  Johnson  accuses  Sprat  of  falling  into,* 
and  a  fault  more  glaring  in  Mrs.  Hutchinson's  book  than 
in  most  of  the  old  lives,  and  less  justifiable,  since  she 
wrote  the  history  of  her  time,  as  well  as  the  life  of  her 
husband. 

Doddridge's  Life  of  Colonel  Gardiner  is  a  singular 
specimen  of  this  class  of  books,  of  an  inferior  literary 
value,  compared  with  the  rest,  but  still  excellent.  As 
an  example  of  its  class,  we  will  give  the  reader  a  sum- 
mary digest  of  its  contents.  The  author,  a  nonconformist 
divine  of  considerable  reputation,  became  in  the  career 
of  his  ministry  professionally  acquainted  and  intimately 
connected  with  the  subject  of  his  narrative,  who  was  a 
royalist  officer,  a  colonel  of  dragoons.  Gardiner  re- 
vealed to  him  from  time  to  time  the  most  eventful  pas- 
sages of  his  life,  over  which  hung,  in  his  devout  imagi- 

*  Life  of  Cowley. 


RELIGIOUS    BIOGRAPHY.  69 

nation,  a  mystical  halo,  radiant  with  celestial  beauty. 
He  was  born  at  a  remarkable  period,  1688,  the  year  of 
the  English  Revolution,  and  expired,  at  a  no  less  stirring 
time,  on  the  battle  field  at  Preston  Pans,  when  the  parti- 
sans of  the  house  of  Stuart  "  were  out"  for  the  second 
time,  in  '45. 

This  distinguished  officer  and  Christian  was  the  son  of 
an  officer  of  good  family,  who  fought  the  battles  of  his 
country  on  the  continent,  during  the  reigns  of  William 
III.  and  of  Anne,  after  him,  and  in  which  Marlborough 
was  the  presiding  military  genius  of  Great  Britain.  A 
military  school,  with  Marlborough  and  Eugene  at  its 
head,  could  not  fail  of  turning  out  able  commanders  ; 
and  of  these  Gardiner  was  one  of  the  chief.  Brave,  to 
a  daring  rashness,  he  had  all  the  splendid  qualities,  and 
but  too  many  of  the  striking  vices,  of  the  soldier.  Like 
the  majority  of  celebrated  men,  who  have  evinced  in 
later  life  the  influence  of  early  education,  Gardiner  was 
fortunate  in  having  a  most  estimable  mother,  to  whose 
guidance  and  example  he  was  wont  to  attribute  the 
uncorrupted  parts  of  his  character  and  temper.  Yet  ill 
company,  and  that  of  a  military  cast,  was  allowed  at 
one  period  to  master  the  original  good  qualities  of  his 
nature,  and  taint  the  purity  of  his  soul  with  the  tarnish 
of  vice.  He  early  fell  into  gross  living,  swore  dread- 
fully, cherished  a  malignant  spirit  of  revenge — (be- 
fore the  age  of  twenty -one  he  had  fought  tJiree  duels,) — 
and  exhibited  even  a  ferocity,  that  became  sobered  down 
into  manly  valour  and  Christian  resolution  ;  so  much 
so,  that  in  middle  life  he  used  to  say,  "  I  fear  sinning 
more  than  fighting !"  In  every  engagement  he  gained 


70  THE    OPAL. 

applause  for  skill,  no  less  than  courage,  since  he  scien- 
tifically practised  his  profession. 

Though  often  remonstrated  with,  and  even  sometimes 
alarming  by  his  horrid  imprecations  the  better  portion  of 
his  comrades,  he  still  went  on  in  his  evil  ways,  until 
the  occurrence  of  what  he  speaks  of  as  a  vision  from 
heaven,  and  would  have  regarded  as  a  miracle.  To  fill 
up  the  interval,  it  seems,  one  morning,  previous  to  the 
hour  appointed  for  meeting  certain  of  his  associates  at  a 
dinner  party,  he  took  up  one  of  the  religious  works  with 
a  quaint  title,  published  at  the  era  of  the  Protectorate, 
when  the  Puritans  were  in  fashion  and  in  power.  He 
read  to  ridicule,  but  was  suddenly  overpowered  by  a 
conviction,  awfully  indescribable,  of  his  wickedness, 
which  threw  him  into  a  sort  of  vision  or  trance,  during 
which  he  imagined,  as  we  construe  the  declaration,  that 
he  saw  a  living  representation  of  his  crucified  Master, 
and  heard  the  divine  voice,  in  tones  of  entreaty  and  to 
this  purport,  Have  I  not  suffered  this  for  thee?  The 
dream,  the  fancied  vision,  or  what  you  will  call  it,  struck 
him  with  profound  dismay,  and  awakened  his  soul  to 
the  consideration  of  its  state. 

From  this  period  he  was  another  man  :  strictly 
pious,  regular  in  every  habit,  loving  solitude  and  reli- 
gious conversation  and  prayer.  He  became  a  dis- 
ciplinarian of  the  noblest  sort,  the  moral  teacher  as  well 
as  commander  of  his  men.  He  now  was  used  to  re- 
count the  wonderful  providences,  (so  he  termed  them,)  of 
his  life,  of  his  extraordinary  escapes,  of  being  wounded 
in  the  mouth  just  after  uttering  a  horrid  oath,  a  punish- 
ment closely  consequent  on  his  offence :  of  striking  per- 


RELIGIOUS    BIOGRAPHY.  71 

sonal  deliverance  from  imminent  dangers.  A  good  man 
and  true  Christian  hero,  after  Steele's  model,  a  saint 
militant,  he  yet  was  not  without  a  besetting  defect — and 
that  was  the  excitability  of  his  religious  imagination. 
He  dreamed  a  dream  of  following  across  the  part  of  a 
field  his  Lord  and  Saviour  :  he  made  a  prediction  of  the 
death  of  the  king,  which  turned  out  correct.  Every 
thing  with  him  was  miraculous,  and  a  little  heightened 
by  (unconscious)  extravagance.  No  doubt  he  was  sin- 
cere :  the  only  question  is,  if  he  was  not  a  self-deceiver. 
A  sudden  conversion,  an  opportune  deliverance,  is  suffi- 
cient to  turn  the  head  of  the  wisest  man.  We  think 
that  like  Donne's  extraordinary  vision  of  his  wife  and 
dead  child,  his  vision  was  the  waking  dream  of  an 
imaginative  mind. 

Whether  imagination  or  reality  presided  on  these 
occasions,  still  he  remained  consistent  and  firm :  unlike 
Volney  and  those  cowardly  blasphemers,  who  take 
back  in  a  moment  of  security  what  they  uttered  in  the 
hour  of  danger.  Even  these  circumstances  remained 
before  him,  a  cloud  by  day  and  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night, 
to  guide  his  faltering  steps.  A  lofty  confidence  elevated 
the  hopes  and  daily  walk  of  the  happy  man,  who  con- 
sidered himself  blessed  in  beholding  the  countenance  of 
his  Saviour  and  friend. 

With  the  mass,  the  love  for  the  miraculous,  for 
prophecy,  for  mysteries,  is  more  a  false  taste,  a  mere 
religious  stimulant,  and  not  the  healthy  action  of  a 
vigorous  soul.  But  it  was  not  so  with  him. 

Gardiner  died  the  death  of  a  soldier  and  a  Christian, 
on  the  field  of  battle,  and  in  the  arms  of  victory,  an 


72  THE    OPAL. 

officer  of  the  generous  strain  of  Gustavus  Adolphus, 
and  like  that  lion  of  the  North,  high-toned,  exact, 
judicious,  and  sincere,  he  fought  the  good  fight  of  faith, 
and  left  behind  him  a  sweet  remembrance  in  the  hearts 
of  all,  as  a  brave  and  accomplished  officer,  a  steadfast 
Christian,  a  good  man,  and  a  courteous  gentleman — 
Requiescat  in  pace. 

To  return  to  the  general  subject :  for  modern  religious 
biography,  we  entertain  no  great  favour.  The  writers  of 
it  are  in  most  cases  ill-fitted  for  their  task,  and  indeed 
quite  unpractised  in  composition.  Southey's  Wesley  (a 
philosophical  history  of  Methodism)  and  Heber's  life  of 
Taylor  are  the  only  two  classic  works  in  this  depart- 
ment, of  the  nineteenth  century,  we  can,  at  present,  re- 
call. The  lives  of  most  missionaries  are  more  interest- 
ing for  the  statistical  information  they  contain  than 
aught  else.  Missionaries  should  be  good  travel  writers, 
yet  we  find  only  a  single  Borrow  among  them.  The 
subjects  of  religious  biography  are  in  most  cases  good 
enough  people,  but  quite  unworthy  of  being  embalmed 
for  the  admiration  of  posterity.  The  embalming  is 
thrown  away,  for  they  never  reach  posterity.  An  emi- 
nently great  and  good  man,  an  exemplar  of  faith  and 
charity,  should  never  be  allowed  to  pass  out  of  the 
memories  of  men,  cannot  be  forgotten  ;  he  will  live  in 
tradition,  if  not  in  printed  books.  But  many  good, 
humble  Christians  die  daily,  whom  it  is  by  no  means 
essential  to  write  the  lives  of;  whom  it  rather  hurts  the 
interests  of  religion,  and  certainly  of  literature,  (con- 
sidered purely  as  such)  to  make  unduly  prominent. 
The  facts  of  their  lives  are  few ;  they  have  done  little 


RELIGIOUS    BIOGRAPHY.  73 

to  affect  the  rest  of  mankind ;  their  greatest  victories 
(silent  and  obscure)  have  been  over  themselves,  (the 
noblest  of  victories,)  and  their  profoundest  discoveries 
have  been  of  the  wickedness  of  their  own  hearts.  These 
facts,  to  the  individual  of  all  others  the  most  important, 
still  have  little  interest  for  the  world  at  large.  The 
story  of  the  Christian's  life  is  told  in  two  words,  Re- 
pentance and  Love.  Now,  unless  striking  instances 
occur,  or  curious  details  are  presented,  a  religious  life, 
of  all  others,  presents  very  little  to  interest  even  the 
most  sympathizing  (intelligent)  reader. 

The  injury  done  to  literature  by  a  flood  of  religious 
lives  is  clear  :  standard  works  of  the  highest  character 
are  neglected  for  a  new  biography  of  the  least  value  ; 
corruptions  of  style  become  frequent,  and  essentially 
impair  the  idiomatic  graces  of  our  tongue.  Inferior 
models  of  excellence  are  held  up,  to  the  exclusion  of 
the  most  excellent ;  cant  is  prevalent ;  at  first  uncon- 
scious, it  becomes  at  last  confirmed  and  hypocritical. 

Let  no  serious  reader  think  we  underrate  the  humblest 
virtues  of  the  patient  Christian.  We  reverence  piety  in 
the  garb  of  the  beggar ;  we  believe  it  to  add  a  crowning 
glory  to  the  wisest  head.  Yet  we  protest  against  an  in- 
discriminate record  of  the  private  lives  of  Christians, 
who  have  not  some  other  claim  on  the  universal  atten- 
tion of  mankind.  Want  of  literature  is  not,  however, 
the  only  want  of  many,  both  of  the  subjects  and  authors, 
of  religious  lives  ;  many  have  wanted  real  humility, 
many  have  in  a  secret  self-praise  elevated  themselves 
above  the  rest  of  mankind,  and  thought  a  publication  of 
their  conversion  and  religious  experience,  necessary  for 
7 


74  THE    OPAL. 

the  salvation  of  the  world.  With  such  we  can  pretend 
to  have  no  patience,  since  we  believe  they  are  self- 
deluded  after  all,  and  rather  to  be  pitied  than  admired. 

The  sincere  Christian  need  not  fear  oblivion.  Un- 
known to  men,  he  is  not  forgotten  by  his  heavenly 
Father ;  and  if  his  life  is  not  told  in  the  perishable 
books  of  human  authors,  his  name  is  nevertheless 
registered  in  the  Book  of  Life. 


TO   A   REVEREND   FRIEND, 

DEPARTING  FOK  MARYLAND. 

B  V  CORNELIUS  MATHEW8. 

FLY  to  the  south,  on  smooth  and  gliding  wing — 
Fealtied  to  Washington  and  Ravenscroft 

By  firmer  ties  than  bondman,  lord,  or  king — 
In  fearless  talons  bearing  high  aloft 

Shafts  plucked  in  many  fields  of  bearded  truth  ; 

But  sailing  onward,  feel  with  noble  ruth 

And  kindliest  hope,  how  sad  a  realm  may  lie 
Beneath  a  heavenward  and  a  human  eye. 

VVhat  though  the  black  shot  of  the  fowler  ring, 
Shattering  the  cold  and  hollow  air  around  thee  ! 
And  though  the  world's  vain  noise  would  fain  confound  thee, 

Calm  be  thy  flight ! — Let  gentlest  motions  bring 
Thy  sacred  feet,  my  Earliest  Friend,  to  rest 
In  lands  that  wait  thy  coming  to  be  blest ! 


PRAYER  AND  PRAISE. 


BY   WILLIAM    H.    BURLEIGH. 

"  While  I  live  will  I  praise  the  Lord.    I  will  sing  praises  unto  my 
God  while  I  have  any  being." 
"  Let  my  prayer  be  set  forth  before  thee  as  incense." 

PSALMS,  cxlvi.  2 ;  cxli.  2. 

1. 

LET  us  pray ! — the  shadowy  night 
Melts  before  the  coming  light, 
And  the  stars,  with  dimmer  ray, 
Twinkle  in  the  kindling  day, 
Till  of  all  their  lustre  shorn, 
In  the  full  and  perfect  morn. 
From  the  pestilence,  whose  breath 
Freights  the  midnight  air  with  death, — 
From  the  prowling  robber's  hand, 
From  the  incendiary's  brand, 
From  disease  and  every  ill, 
God  hath  kindly  kept  us  still. 

n. 

Praise  to  him  whose  goodness  kept 
Watch  around  us  while  we  slept — 
Be  his  worthy  name  adored 
For  the  light  around  us  poured, 
While  exulteth  in  its  beams 
Earth  with  ail  her  hills  and  streams ; 


76  THE    OPAL. 

For  those  common  blessings  given 
Duly  with  the  light  of  heaven ; 
For — to  guide  us  on  our  way — 
Grace  sufficient  to  our  day, 
And  for  hearts  with  love  imbued, 
Burning  with  their  gratitude. 

in. 

Let  us  pray  ! — each  flow'ret's  cup 
Sendeth  sweetest  incense  up ; 
And  with  prayer  the  dewy  grass 
Trembles  as  the  breezes  pass ; 
Every  bird  whose  glittering  wings 
Fan  the  air,  exulting  sings 
Songs  of  praise  to  him  who  sent 
Light  to  gild  the  firmament ! 
And  the  wreathing  vapours  dank, 
Rising  from  the  river's  bank, 
Upward  from  the  valleys  move, 
Catch  the  light  and  glow  with  love  ! 

IV. 

While  this  worship  goeth  on, 
Shall  the  human  heart  alone 
Prayer  restrain  and  praise  deny 
To  the  Lord  of  earth  and  sky  ? 
Never !  let  our  souls  proclaim, 
"  Worthy  is  Immanuel's  name  !" 
Let  our  loud  thanksgivings  ring 
Up  to  heaven's  eternal  King  ! 
Praise,  for  blessings  numberless, 
Prayer,  to  him  who  loves  to  bless — 
Ever  shall  his  goodness  dwell 
With  his  chosen  Israel ! 


PRAYER    AND    PRAISE.  77 

V. 

Let  us  pray  ! — from  cloudless  sky 
Looks  the  sun  with  burning  eye, 
Noon  is  over  earth — the  flowers 
Drooping,  wait  reviving  showers — 
And  the  flocks,  to  shun  the  heat, 
Seek  the  forest's  cool  retreat. 
Gathered  round  our  ample  board, 
Let  us  praise  the  sovereign  Lord, 
And  to  him  our  prayers  uplift, — 
Giver  of  each  perfect  gift, — 
That  his  love  be  round  us  ever, 
That  his  spirit  leave  us  never. 

VI. 

Trials  will  our  way  beset, 

And  temptations  must  be  met — 

Unto  thee,  oh  God  !  alone 

Is  the  hidden  future  known ; 

But,  whatever  it  may  bring 

Us,  of  joy  or  suffering, 

Only  let  thy  spirit  dwell 

In  our  hearts,  and  all  is  well ! 

Only  let  thy  grace  sustain, 

Earth  shall  tempt  our  souls  in  vain, 

With  its  wealth  or  joys,  to  stray 

From  the  true  and  living  way  ! 

VII. 

Let  us  pray  ! — the  sun  hath  set 
Though  his  radiance  lingers  yet, 
And  along  the  coming  night, 
Throws  a  dim  and  doubtful  light, 

7* 


78  THE    OPAL. 

In  the  east,  together  rolled, 
Clouds  of  mingled  rose  and  gold 
Fling  a  rich  and  softened  dye 
Over  half  the  bending  sky, 
While  a  solitary  star 
Glimmers  in  the  west  afar, 
Like  the  eye  of  serapli  pure, 
Beaming  from  the  "  clear  obscure  !" 


VIII. 

Let  us  to  Jehovah  pay 
Praises  with  the  dying  day, 
For  the  love  that  girt  us  round, 
For  the  mercies  that  have  crowned, 
For  that  all-sustaining  hope 
That  hath  borne  our  spirits  up, 
Whether  clouds  their  shadows  vast 
Darkly  o'er  our  pathway  cast, 
Or  our  way  was  rendered  bright 
By  the  sun's  pervading  light ; 
Prayers  shall  rise  and  praise  be  poured 
To  the  beneficient  Lord  ! 


IX. 

Let  us  pray  ! — from  cloud  and  sky 
Faded  is  the  roseate  dye — 
Shadow  all  the  valleys  fills, 
Night  is  settling  on  the  hills, 
Stars  in  glittering  troops  appear, 
Watchers  o'er  this  lower  sphere, 
Broods  upon  the  sluggish  air 
Silence  with  its  solemn  prayer — 


PRAYER    AND    PRAISE.  79 

Now  in  sleep  his  eyelids  close, 
As  the  labourer  seeks  repose  ; 
No  dark  memories  haunt  his  breast, 
So  his  slumbers  shall  be  blest ! 

x. 

Pray ! — for  over  life  at  last 
Shall  the  night  of  death  be  cast, 
And  around  the  waiting  tomb 
Gather  more  than  midnight  gloom, 
Unless  He,  the  strong  to  save, 
Crowned  Victor  o'er  the  grave, 
Guide  and  guard  the  trembling  soul, 
As  the  billows  round  it  roll ! 
Oh,  with  watching  and  with  prayer, 
Let  us  for  that  hour  prepare, 
So  for  us  shall  be  the  rest 
Of  the  sanctified  and  blest ! 


GOD  WILL  APPOINT  A  DELIVERER  ; 

OR,  THE  FLOWER  GIRL  OF  ANTIOCII. 


BY  MRS.  SEBA  SMITH. 


IT  was  the  early  twilight,  the  stars  were  scarcely 
paled  in  the  warm  sky  of  June,  and  the  mist  that 
all  night  lay  heavily  upon  the  waters  of  the  Orontes 
was  sailing  in  deep  folds  over  the  distant  hills,  occasion- 
ally broken  by  a  ray  of  warmer  light,  indicating  the 
joyous  coming  up  of  the  god  of  day,  to  disperse  the 
shadow  and  awaken  all  things  to  life  and  love.  The 
outer  walls  of  Antioch  were  as  yet  unclosed,  and  groups 
from  the  country  were  beginning  to  collect  about  the 
gates,  while  the  by-paths  and  great  thoroughfares  to 
the  city  exhibited  a  gala  view  of  peasants,  strangers, 
and  wealthy  dwellers  from  the  surrounding  districts, 
thronging  to  the  city  to  enjoy  the  gayeties  of  a  celebra- 
tion, in  which  all  might  join  with  freedom  and  pleasure. 
It  was  the  festival  of  Hestia,  and  the  simplest  denizen  of 
the  wilderness,  the  rudest  boor  as  well  as  the  more 
deeply  versed  in  the  mysteries  of  religious  worship, 
might  equally  join  in  adoration  of  a  deity  so  readily 
comprehended — the  benign  protector  of  the  domestic 
hearth.  Every  where  were  the  flowers  of  that  flower- 


GOD  WILL  APPOINT  A  DELIVERER.      81 

loving  dime  wreathed  in  wild  profusion.  The  rude 
stone  indicating  the  pathway  of  the  traveller,  and  the 
old  landmarks  defining  the  limits  of  property,  were 
bound  with  garlands  ;  and  the  sober  camel,  the  fiery 
steed,  and  even  the  tower-like  elephant,  equally  with  the 
diminutive  ass,  thronged  the  highway  to  the  city,  in  all 
the  panoply  of  gold  and  silver  trappings,  with  the  tin- 
kling of  bells  and  the  melody  of  pipes,  each  festooned 
in  garlands,  and  bearing  cakes  and  fruits,  a  free-will 
offering,  to  be  dispensed  amid  the  multitude  of  wor- 
shippers. Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  where  wound 
the  sparkling  waters  amid  the  hills,  might  be  seen  boats 
of  every  description,  their  gay  pennons  flashing  in  the 
gathering  light,  and  oar  and  mast  radiant  with  garlands, 
while  the  hills  awoke  their  thousand  echoes  responsive 
to  the  melody  of  horn,  or  the  sweeter  music  ringing 
from  glad  voices  and  glad  hearts.  Troops  of  maidens, 
bearing  vases  of  rare  flowers  to  decorate  the  shrines  of 
the  goddess,  filled  the  air  with  their  harmonious  voices 
as  they  sang  in  concert. 

We  must  separate  one  group  from  the  many  that 
approached  the  city,  as  being  more  intimately  connected 
with  our  story.  On  a  slight  eminence  is  standing  an 
ancient  man,  whose  stern  simplicity  of  dress,  and  tran- 
quil, even  saddened  cast  of  countenance,  at  once  distin- 
guished him  from  the  festive  multitude.  As  he  looked 
down  upon  the  city,  with  the  dense  population  just 
thronging  into  its  many  avenues,  his  head  was  unco- 
vered, and  the  light  breath  of  morning  lifted  the  thin 
white  hairs  from  his  temples,  and  parted  the  long  locks 
that  depended  from  his  chin.  At  first  his  eye  had  wan- 


83  THE    OPAL. 

• 

dered  off  in  sweet  communion  with  the  beautiful  scene 
that  lay  spread  out  before  him,  and  a  holy  rapture  had 
filled  his  bosom  ;  then,  as  it  fell  upon  the  multitude  below, 
his  countenance  assumed  an  expression  of  mournful 
interest :  no  severity  was  there,  but  sympathy  blended 
with  compassion. 

It  was  Ignatius,  the  patriarch  of  Antioch,  he  whom 
the  holy  Nazarene  had  blessed,  who  had  looked  upon 
the  pale  face  of  the  stricken  Mary,  and  sat  even  at  the 
feet  of  the  beloved  disciple.  Uncompromising  in  his 
own  martyr-like  regard  for  truth,  he  had  imbibed  a 
portion  of  the  gentleness  of  him  who  leaned  on  Jesus' 
bosom,  and  felt  that  these  even  in  their  delusion  igno- 
rantly  worshipped  the  true  and  the  good.  Hitherto  he 
had  stood  with  hands  carelessly  pressed  upon  the  head 
of  his  staff,  but  now  he  spread  them  out,  embracing  all 
in  one  fervent  benediction.  When  he  again  resumed  his 
position,  his  eye  rested  upon  a  child  of  singular  beauty, 
who  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  child's  expression  of 
wonder  and  pity.  Instantly,  however,  as  her  eye  met 
his.  she  looked  down,  and  began  to  disengage  a  garland 
from  those  that  hung  upon  her  arm  ;  she  held  it  up  for 
his  acceptance,  her  face  full  of  smiles  and  the  confiding 
sweetness  of  childhood.  Ignatius  pressed  his  lips  upon 
the  brow  of  the  fair  child,  and  his  hand  rested  a  moment 
upon  her  head.  She  looked  at  the  plain  sandal,  the 
simple  robe  and  girdle,  for  she  knew  something  of  the 
sect  they  indicated,  yet  she  ventured  to  say, 

"  Will  you  not  hang  this  upon  the  altar  of  the 
goddess  ?" 

Before  the  Christian  could  reply,  the  wreath  was  lifted 


GOD  WILL  APPOINT  A  DELIVERER.      83 

high  above  their  heads,  where  it  vibrated  a  moment,  and 
then  streamed  forth  upon  the  air.  The  child  looked  up 
and  clapped  her  hands  with  merriment,  for  an  elephant 
of  the  largest  size  had  seized  it  in  his  trunk,  and  held  it 
aloft,  while  his  eyes  shone  with  a  singular  expression  of 
intelligence  and  pleasure. 

"  Give  it  to  me,  Porous  !"  she  cried,  striking  his  rough 
sides  with  affected  anger.  The  .elephant  described  a 
circle  in  the  air,  and  then  gently  laid  it  upon  her 
shoulder ,•  the  next  moment  he  had  encircled  her  with 
his  trunk,  and  raised  her  to  a  level  with  his  forehead. 

"  You  shall  be  crowned,  Porous,  you  shall  be 
crowned !"  cried  the  child,  swinging  the  flowers  over 
his  neck,  and  hanging  them  on  the  huge  tusks  of  the 
animal,  all  the  time  shaking  her  curls  while  her  sweet 
voice  rang  with  merriment.  When  all  were  disposed  of 
in  this  way,  she  pillowed  her  arm  upon  the  brow  of  the 
animal  amid  the  blossoms,  and  playfully  laid  down  her 
head  and  closed  her  eyes  as  if  for  sleep,  the  dimples 
changing  like  wavelets  about  her  mouth,  and  at  every 
moment  her  bright  eyes  flashing  in  the  light.  It  was  a 
beautiful  picture,  that  sunny-haired  child  sustained  by 
the  huge  creature,  who  moved  his  pillared  limbs  from 
side  to  side,  and  waved  his  fan-like  ears  as  if  instinct 
with  delight.  Then,  as  the  crowd  pressed  nearer  the 
city,  the  animal  moved  onward  with  his  sweet  charge. 

Porous  was  an  old  elephant,  nearly  white,  of  enor- 
mous strength,  belonging  to  a  wealthy  citizen  of  Antioch, 
whose  son  he  had  saved  from  a  death  which  was 
threatened  him  by  some  outbreak  of  popular  fury  in 


84  THE    OPAL. 

consequence  of  his  irregularities — the  elephant,  ex- 
travagantly attached  to  the  youth,  having  borne  him 
aloft  amid  the  crowd,  and  thus  preserved  his  life.  In- 
deed, Porous  seems  to  have  been  superhuman  in  his 
attachments,  and  to  have  found  a  pleasure  in  bestowing 
his  awkward  caresses  upon  some  human  pet,  greater  it 
may  be  supposed  than  he  could  have  derived  from  one 
of  his  own  species ;  for  his  ear  was  exquisitely  alive  to 
the  sound  of  music,  and  the  kindly  tones  of  the  human 
voice  seemed  to  afford  him  the  greatest  delight.  Often 
in  passing  by  a  group  of  children  he  would  be  seen  to 
iStop,  vibrate  his  trunk,  and  watch  their  sports  with  evi- 
dent pleasure ;  he  would  even  share  in  them,  bringing 
the  instruments  of  the  game  in  his  trunk,  and  often 
swinging  the  children  one  after  another  in  the  air. 

After  the  service  he  had  rendered  his  master,  little 
had  been  exacted  from  him.  He  was  allowed  to  go  at 
will  through  the  city,  where  he  was  every  where  re- 
garded as  a  favourite. 

Now  when  he  was  seen  bearing  along  the  beautiful 
child,  a  way  was  made  for  him  by  the  pleased  multitude, 
many  indeed  supposing  the  child,  embedded  as  she  was 
in  flowers,  as  one  destined  for  the  service  of  the  goddess. 
But  Nerissa  was  a  bond-maiden,  and  though  gentle  and 
beautiful,  might  not  aspire  to  such  high  honour.  True, 
gentle  service  only  was  hers,  and  as  yet  the  yoke  had 
been  unfelt ;  no  sorrow  had  been  hers,  except  when 
her  pale  and  gentle  mother  died,  in  sorrow  for  the 
home  from  which  she  had  been  torn,  a  captive  and  an 
exile ;  but  tears  may  not  linger  upon  the  cheek  of  child- 


GOD  WILL  APPOINT  A  DELIVERER.      85 

hood,  smiles  will  chase  them  away,  and  gladness  will 
make  it  forget  to  mourn. 

Who  in  looking  upon  the  clear  brow,  the  dark  radiant 
eyes,  and  wreathed  smiles  of  the  young  maiden,  could 
have  read  there  woman's  destiny  of  tears  and  heart- 
dwelling  grief,  that  earth  cannot  yield  aught  to  fill  up 
the  measure  of  her  own  deep  love,  her  own  truthful  and 
undying  affections  ! 

Nerissa  was  accustomed  to  go  daily  through  the 
wealthier  portions  of  the  city  with  baskets  of  flowers 
elegantly  arranged,  and  each  telling  some  tale  of  ten- 
derness, some  language  of  sentiment,  which  lovers  were 
wont  to  purchase  to  present  to  the  object  of  their  attach- 
ment ;  and  in  this  way  the  girl  had  become  the  confidant 
of  many  a  tale  of  love  and  many  a  passage  revealing 
its  waywardness,  its  caprice,  or  estrangement.  Alas, 
simple  child  !  often  did  she  look  in  amazement  upon 
sweet  faces,  that  could  wantonly  pain  those  acknow- 
ledged dear  to  the  heart,  and  behold  noble  and  manly 
bosoms  torn  with  agony  at  the  fickleness  of  those  for 
whom  they  would  have  perilled  life  itself.  But  Nerissa 
had  a  light  heart,  and  though  her  brow  became  clouded 
for  a  moment  at  sights  like  these,  the  next  her  gayest 
smile  played  about  her  lips,  and  the  song  of  the  hand- 
some flower  girl  of  Antioch  called  many  a  patron  to  the 
lattice. 

For  many  weeks  of  late  the  elephant  Porous  had 
been  observed  to  follow  leisurely  in  the  wake  of  the 
girl,  stopping  whenever  she  paused,  and  when  quite 
alone  thrusting  his  trunk  over  her  shoulder,  to  claim  a 
caress,  or  to  be  playfully  decorated  with  flowers.  When 
8 


86  THE    OPAL. 

indulged  in  this  way,  he  would  move  with  renewed  plea- 
sure, and  appear  intent  upon  observing  the  sweet  girl. 
Indeed  Nerissa  often  talked  with  the  creature  uncon- 
sciously, and  often  was  she  astonished  at  his  quickness 
of  perception. 

For  instance,  once  in  disposing  of  her  flowers,  a  free 
youth  had  attempted  some  liberties,  which  Nerissa  re- 
sented with  all  the  intensity  of  her  own  fiery  clime,  and 
when  she  murmured  reproachfully,  "  Why,  Porous,  didst 
thou  not  strike  down  the  foolish  coxcomb  ?"  the  eyes  of 
the  elephant  kindled  with  intelligence,  and  he  moved 
along  nearer  in  her  footsteps.  A  few  days  after  the 
youth  again  crossed  their  path,  when  he  rushed  forward, 
seized  him  in  his  trunk,  hurling  him  aloft,  and  would 
have  dashed  him  upon  the  ground,  but  for  the  entreaties 
of  Nerissa.  The  story  became  known,  and  Porous 
grew  to  be  regarded  as  the  protector  of  the  flower  girl. 

A  child,  treading  rapidly  upon  the  footsteps  of  woman- 
hood, she  had  still  all  the  playfulness  of  the  one,  while 
the  intensity  of  the  other  was  fast  gathering  about  her 
heart.  Her  smile  was  that  of  a  child,  while  the  quick 
blush  revealed  the  approach  of  the  woman.  Even  now 
a  new  tenderness  breathed  in  the  tones  of  her  musical 
voice,  and  the  ringing  laugh  was  softened  to  a  low  sweet 
melody.  Could  it  be  that  love  had  visited  her  young 
heart,  or  was  it  but  the  stirring  of  its  wings,  as  yet 
wavering  and  objectless?  Nerissa  asked  not.  She 
blushed  and  smiled  and  sang  her  songs,  repelling  with 
coquettish  frowns  the  admiring  eyes  with  which  the 
youth  of  Antioch  began  to  regard  her. 

Nerissa  had  knelt  at  the  shrine  of  the  goddess,  and 


GOD    WILL    APPOINT   A    DELIVERER.  87 

joined  with  other  maidens  in  procession  and  chant,  and 
now  as  the  day  declined  she  was  on  her  return  to  the 
suburbs,  her  bulky  friend  still  in  attendance.  Ignatius 
likewise  was  returning  from  his  ministry,  where  he  had 
confirmed  the  faith  of  the  wavering,  comforted  the 
mourner,  and  preached  that  purer  doctrine  which  is  to 
sanctify  the  heart  of  the  believer.  Now  as  the  day 
declined  he  too  was  on  his  return  to  his  humble  lodge 
on  the  verge  of  the  wilderness.  Nerissa  looked  timidly 
up  at  the  venerable  man  as  she  encountered  him  at  the 
gate,  and  walked  silently  by  his  side,  for  his  tranquil 
aspect  and  benign  smile  won  her  confidence.  For  a 
while  the  way  led  amid  groves  of  citron,  the  myrtle, 
and  the  rose,  but  now,  as  the  path  wound  amid  the  hills, 
trees  and  shrubs  of  hardier  growth  filled  the  earth.  The 
voices  of  the  multitude  died  away,  and  the  warm  tints 
of  sunset  began  to  soften  into  gloom.  They  had  climbed 
the  bed  of  a  torrent  nearly  dry,  whose  white  pebbles 
gleamed  amid  vines  and  blossoms,  and  now  stood  upon 
a  shelf  of  rock,  above  which  towered  a  lofty  sycamore : 
the  tinkling  plash  of  the  waters  just  reached  the  ear 
from  beneath,  and  in  the  distance  gleamed  the  white 
walls,  the  temples,  and  princely  dwellings  of  Antioch. 

Nerissa,  tranquillized  by  the  hour,  had  listened  to  the 
grave  discourse  of  the  patriarch,  as  yet  but  partially 
understood,  but  the  import  was  hopeful,  and  strangely 
in  harmony  with  that  deep  yearning  for  something 
brighter  and  purer  felt  in  her  own  heart,  and  she  listened 
with  the  docility  of  her  child  nature.  Ignatius  knelt 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  still  skies,  and  uttered  a 
fervent  prayer  to  the  Invisible.  How  could  she  compre- 


88  THE   OPAL. 

hend  those  lofty  abstractions,  that  love  embracing  all, 
and  strangely  too  invoking  blessings  and  peace  for  the 
injurer  ? 

Nerissa  turned  aside   to   her  dwelling,  and  Ignatius 
ascended  the  mountain  to  his  solitary  cave. 

Weeks  and  months  passed  away,  and  often  did  the 
Eastern  maiden  sit  at  the  feet  of  the  patriarch,  gathering 
wisdom  from  his  lips.  As  yet  she  listened,  unaware 
that  she  imbibed  truths  of  vital  import ;  that  imperceptibly 
the  mummeries  of  her  own  faith  ceased  to  content  her ; 
that  she  learned  their  gods  were  but  the  impersonation  of 
the  loftier  qualities  of  manhood,  still  debased  by  his 
errors  and  passions ;  and  that  unknowingly  she  sought 
communion  with  the  majesty  of  the  Eternal,  the  Ancient 
of  Days,  the  Searcher  of  Hearts,  the  Author  of  the 
Spirit.  These  doctrines  awakened  no  tumult,  no  wild 
frenzy  ;  they  sank  silently  into  her  heart,  and  dwelt  amid 
her  thoughts  almost  unperceived.  She  was  the  same 
gay  maiden,  and  though  her  air  might  have  acquired  a 
something  more  of  majesty,  it  was  simply  the  result  of 
latent  truth,  and  she  sang,  and  smiled,  and  wreathed 
bouquets  to  the  same  language  of  sentiment,  and  passed 
through  the  city  in  her  maidenhood  of  beauty  unmo- 
lested. 

Porous  too,  her  strange  companion,  gradually  forsook 
-  all  others  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  the  flower  girl, 
whose  every  word  and  motion  he  seemed  to  comprehend. 
Sometimes  Nerissa  would  direct  him  to  remain  in  the 
suburbs  or  by-streets  awaiting  her  return,  an  order  he 
never  failed  to  obey,  although  it  evidently  cost  him  an 
effort.  At  such  times  he  became  restless  and  petulant, 


GOD  WILL  APPOINT  A  DELIVERER.      89 

driving  the  children  from  his  path,  and  moving  perpetu- 
ally in  short  impatient  steps.  On  her  approach  he  would 
weave  his  trunk  about  her,  and  then  stand  to  receive  her 
caresses,  and  listen  to  her  playful  epithets  of  tenderness 
with  a  strange  and  most  gentle  expression  of  delight. 

Many  were  the  surmises  of  that  wonder-loving  and 
poetical  people.  Some,  believers  in  the  doctrine  of 
transmigration,  conceived  the  elephant  to  have  become 
the  dwelling-place  of  some  human  soul,  that,  retaining 
all  its  former  affections  and  sentiments,  was  doomed  to 
be  the  victim  of  an  attachment  for  the  beautiful  maiden, 
whose  love  he  still  sought  with  all  the  vehemence  of 
human  emotion,  while  the  incongruity  of  his  external 
shape  for  ever  prohibited  him  from  its  expression.  Ne- 
rissa  asked  not,  cared  not  for  a  solution  of  the  mystery  ; 
he  was  her  friend,  her  protector,  and  she  lavished  ten- 
derness upon  him  because  such  was  her  nature,  and 
every  thing  within  the  sphere  of  her  movements  must 
receive  a  share. 

Is  it  not  even  so  !  are  there  not  natures  so  gentle,  so 
loving,  and  beautiful  that  even  inferior  natures  feel  the 
benignity  of  their  aspect,  and  are  drawn  to  them  by  that 
affinity  of  love  that  links  together  the  whole  universe  of 
God  ?  Human  hearts  too  bow  down  in  worship  to  them 
as  in  adoration  of  what  is  best  and  worthiest  in  huma- 
nity, the  outward  expression  of  the  true  and  the  beau- 
tiful. 

"  Come  hither,  Nerissa  !"  said  her  young  mistress,  as 
the  maiden  completed  an  arrangement  of  gems  that 
decorated  a  tripod,  inlaid  with  mother  of  pearl. 

Nerissa  sank  gently  upon  her  knees  before  the  high- 
8* 


90  THE    OPAL. 

born  damsel,  her  hands  lightly  folded,  and  the  long  braids 
of  her  hair  falling  around  her  and  lying  in  masses  upon 
the  mat  on  which  she  knelt.  Her  head  was  slightly 
inclined,  thus  exposing  the  graceful  curve  of  the  rounded 
shoulder,  and  the  rich  outline  already  apparent  in  her 
splendid  figure.  Her  eyes  were  bent  downward  till  the 
long  lash  swept  the  cheek,  which  was  just  not  too  dark 
o  prevent  the  blood  from  resting  there  in  its  richest  tint. 
The  finely  arched  brow  reposed  with  no  shadow  upon 
its  clear  surface,  though  the  quick  and  suppressed  beat- 
ing of  the  heart,  as  it  swelled  the  girdle  beneath  her 
bosom,  and  a  slight  compression  of  the  lip,  indicated  the 
presence  of  strong  and  painful  emotion.  As  she  thus 
knelt,  she  formed  a  striking  contrast  to  the  other,  with 
her  more  mature  style  of  beauty. 

The  straight  profile,  the  broader  forehead,  and  fairer 
complexion  of  Helen  betrayed  her  Grecian  origin,  while 
.  the  full  bust  and  dreamy  softness  of  eyes  that  scarcely 
raised  the  fringed  lid,  accorded  well  with  the  full  and 
richly  coloured  lips.  Even  now  while  she  carelessly 
glanced  at  the  excited  girl  at  her  feet  she  delayed  to 
utter  her  thoughts,  as  if  it  gave  her  an  indolent  pleasure 
to  watch  her  changeful  cheek.  When  she  at  length 
spoke,  though  her  voice  was  low  and  soft,  the  whole 
frame  of  Nerissa  thrilled  as  if  roused  from  a  revery, 
and  the  blood  rushed  to  her  face  and  bosom. 

"  Did  I  not  see  thee  by  the  fountain  near  the  river 
gate,  this  morning  1" 

The  maiden  bowed  her  head  in  silence. 

"  Was  not  the  young  Roman,  Servius,  by  thee,  and 
did  I  not  see  him  bind  a  garland  amid  thy  hair  ?" 


GOD  WILL  APPOINT  A  DELIVERER.      91 

Nerissa  again  assented,  and  her  questioner  looked  at 
her  a  moment  in  silence.  At  length  the  blood  rushing 
to  her  own  face,  and  lifting  her  lustrous  eyes  full  of  a 
new  fire,  she  said, 

"  And  didst  thou  present  the  buds  I  gave  thee  ?  and 
what  said  the  youth  ?" 

Nerissa  replied  without  raising  her  eyes,  "  I  offered 
them,  lady,  but  he  threw  them  aside." 

Helen  bit  her  lip,  and  she  pressed  her  hand  upon  her 
girdle  as  if  to  hold  down  the  emotion  that  swelled  it. 

"  Didst  thou  reveal  the  name  of  her  who  sent  the 
offering?" 

"  Nay,  lady,  they  were  rejected  ;  it  were  base  in  him 
to  ask,  treachery  in  me  to  reveal." 

There  was  so  much  of  truth  and  simplicity  in  the 
manner  of  the  girl,  that  it  softened  for  an  instant  the 
irritated  feelings  of  the  mistress,  and  she  was  silent.  A 
moment  more  and  she  bent  her  eyes  sternly  upon  her, 
and  said, 

"  Thou  didst  proffer  thine  own  suit  first !  thou  hast 
basely  betrayed  me,  slave  as  thou  art !" 

For  one  instant  the  girl's  face  glowed  with  indignant 
blood,  and  the  flashing  eyes  of  the  incensed  maidens 
met  as  Nerissa  arose  from  her  submissive  attitude,  and 
stood  proudly  up. 

"  Nerissa  hath  not  the  soul  of  a  slave,  whatever  may 
be  her  condition  ;  falsehood  doth  not  belong  to  her  !" 

"  And  where  is  the  garland  the  vain  youth  bound  for 
thee  ?"  continued  the  other. 

"  Nerissa  dared  not  wear  it ;  she  laid  it  at  the  foot  of 
the  altar  in  the  penetralia." 


92  THE   OPAL. 

"  Hast  thou  dared  to  love  the  youth,  Nerissa  ?  If 
thou  hast,  though  the  Fates  themselves  were  arrayed 
against  me,  thou  shouldst  know  what  it  is  to  dare  my 
displeasure  !  Tell  me,  hast  thou  before  met  the  youth  ?" 

Nerissa  stood  pale  and  trembling.  "  He  has  pur- 
chased flowers,  and  sometimes  bound  them  upon  the 
temples  of  the  gods,  saying  they  were  for  me.  It  is  not 
for  such  as  Nerissa  to  dare  love  the  noble  Roman." 

"But  thou  hast  dared  to  do  so,"  cried  the  lady,  "thou 
hast  dared  to  do  it,  and  the  penalty  be  on  thine  own 
head  !" 

Nerissa  raised  her  head  with  an  air  that  had  in  it  less 
of  the  fire  of  her  blood  than  the  proud  dignity  of  one 
conscious  of  no  wrong,  and  she  replied  calmly, 

"  Whatever  may  be  my  thoughts,  none  but  the 
Revealer  of  hearts  can  ever  know.  Bondage  cannot 
touch  the  soul,  lady,  and  there  Nerissa  will  be  free. 
No  question  may  drag  her  thoughts  to  the  light,  where 
they  now  lie  unshackled,  unapproachable,  the  free 
thoughts  of  a  free  soul.  O  that  Nerissa  were  with 
those  to  whom  death  can  no  more  come !"  and  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  wept. 

"-Ha  !  sayest  thou  so,  maiden  !  By  the  eternal  Styx, 
thou  hast  indeed  revealed  thy  thought !  Thy  language 
hath  betrayed  thee !  Thou  art  one  of  the  new  sect, 
against  whom  the  powers  are  even  now  arrayed  !" 

At  this  moment  a  harsh  and  somewhat  melancholy 
sound,  proceeding  from  the  foot  of  the  terrace,  where  the 
vines  clustered  about  marble  columns,  called  both  of  the 
maidens  to  the  court,  and  the  sound  was  repeated.  In- 
stantly Nerissa  hastened  down  the  avenue  bearing  cates 


GOD  WILL  APPOINT  A  DELIVERER.      93 

and  fruit  for  her  favourite.  Her  brow  was  still  trou- 
bled, and  she  failed  to  caress  the  noble  brute,  who  took 
the  dainties  from  her  hand  without  the  utterance  of 
a  single  kind  word  from  his  mistress.  When  all  were 
exhausted  he  still  presented  his  trunk,  moving  it  to  and 
fro,  and  she  mechanically  laid  her  arm  upon  it  and 
rested  her  head  thereon  with  a  feeling  of  listless  un- 
happiness  new  to  her  heart.  As  she  did  so  she  was 
surprised  to  behold  upon  the  sward  beneath  the  dainties 
she  had  just  presented  the  creature,  who  had  taken  them 
and  dropped  them  upon  the  earth. 

"  Porous,"  she  said,  looking  mournfully  into  his 
strange  eyes,  "Porous,  hast  thou  a  human  soul? 
Surely  thou  must  know  that  I  am  in  sorrow  !  Would 
that  thou  didst,  for  Nerissa  may  love  thee  and  feel 
neither  shame  nor  regret."  And  again  she  laid  her  head 
on  the  strange  pillow. 

"  Love  is  the  prerogative  of  the  gods,  and  even  Jove 
himself  might  own  it  for  Nerissa,"  said  a  deep  low 
voice ;  and  the  maiden  beheld  Servius  half  kneeling  at 
her  feet  and  looking  admiringly  into  her  face.  Still  she 
changed  not  her  position,  but  regarded  the  youth  with  a 
look  of  mournful  tenderness,  more  touching  than  any 
thing  that  words  could  convey. 

"  Nerissa  hath  her  price,"  said  she,  mournfully  ;  "  the 
proud  Syrian  would  demand  a  sum  worthy  of  Croesus 
for  the  person  of  the  bond-maiden." 

"  Let  him  name  it,  let  him  name  it,  and  Servius  would 
barter  any  thing  short  of  the  freedom  of  a  Roman  for 
the  love  of  Nerissa." 

A  smile  of  bitterness   passed   over  the  face  of  the 


94  THE   OPAL. 

girl,  that  gave  a  wild  and   startling  brilliancy  to  her 
singular  beauty,  as  she  replied, 

"  Name  not  such  love  to  me  !  Lowly  as  I  am,  Nerissa 
could  not  brook  the  cold  proud  tolerance  of  the  Roman 
matron,  eyeing  the  bond-wife,  purchased  by  her  son. 
No,  better  were  it  that  some  patrician  maiden,  with 
claims  ancient  as  the  walls  of  the  city,  should  bless  his 
love.  Let  him  forget  the  Eastern  maiden." 

Servius  arose  to  his  feet,  and  gazed  tenderly  yet  most 
respectfully  upon  the  face  of  the  girl,  whose  lids  drooped 
as  her  eyes  encountered  the  softness  of  his,  and  the  tears 
gushed  from  beneath  them.  At  this  moment  a  pet  dove 
alighted  upon  the  shoulder  of  a  statue  beside  her,  and 
attracted  her  attention  by  its  cooing.  Nerissa  looked 
round  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  retiring  figure  of 
Helen.  She  waved  a  hurried  adieu  and  disappeared 
among  the  foliage. 

Hours,  velvet-footed  hours,  glided  away  in  that  sunny 
clime,  deepening  the  soul-beaming  eyes  of  Nerissa,  and 
crowning  her  with  the  graces  of  womanhood.  The 
proud  and  luxurious  Helen  delighted  to  exhibit  her  hand- 
some slave,  as  a  portion  of  her  wealth  and  ministering 
to  her  vanity  ;  for  her  own  affluence  of  beauty  precluded 
the  pangs  of  jealousy,  and  she  scorned  the  thought  of 
rivalry  in  a  slave,  who  could  be  crushed  in  a  moment  at 
her  will. 

Servius  the  handsome  Roman  now  touched  the  lyre 
at  her  feet,  and  Helen  triumphed  not ;  for  beauty,  and 
talents,  and  grace  were  the  gift  of  the  gods,  unstinted  in 
their  measure,  and  homage  to  her  had  become  a  dower 
free  as  the  free  airs  of  heaven. 


GOD  WILL  APPOINT  A  DELIVERER.      95 

What  were  to  her  the  tortures  of  another  heart,  ago- 
nizing in  the  pangs  of  unrequited  love,  a  love  that  had 
been  the  toy  and  trifle  of  an  hour,  when  that  heart 
throbbed  beneath  the  insignia  of  servitude  !  And  Ser- 
vius,  what  was  the  heart-breaking  devotion  of  the  flower 
girl  to  him  upon  whose  lip  rested  for  ever  the  winning 
seductions  that  find  their  way  at  once  to  woman's  heart ! 
Smiling  and  winning  in  the  very  wantonness  of  a 
buoyant  nature,  impressions  of  the  present  were  always 
the  powerful,  and  those  of  the  past  glided  away  like 
water  upon  the  sands,  no  more  to  be  gathered. 

Nerissa  bound  chaplets  for  the  brows  of  the  lovers, 
twined  garlands  and  weaved  them  in  the  devices  of  her 
own  land  ;  she  smiled  and  knelt  at  their  bidding,  and 
her  fair  brow  received  the  mimic  crown,  all  with  the 
same  unimpassioned  grace ;  and  even  the  Roman  became 
piqued  that  an  impression  he  had  inspired  should  have 
been  so  transitory.  He  watched  her  calm  proud  eye, 
and  wondered  at  its  tranquil  depths  ;  but  he  was  himself 
too  wayward  to  comprehend  the  pale  cheek  and  the  play 
of  the  compressed  lips  when  in  his  presence, 

***** 

The  possession  of  power  increases  its  tenacity — the 
triumph  of  success  enhances  the  love  of  conquest — the 
cruelties  of  war  give  a  sanction  to  arbitrary  measures  in 
times  of  repose — an  army  fresh  from  its  victories  is  ill 
fitted  for  the  quiet  observances  of  peace  ;  like  the  tiger 
that  will  bury  itself  in  the  very  vitals  of  its  victim,  the 
soldier  learns  to  riot  in  the  excitements  of  blood,  until 
satiety  at  length  sends  him  loathing  from  the  banquet. 

These  remarks  will  not  apply  to  an  army  whose  great 


96  THE    OPAL. 

motive-movement  has  been  patriotism,  but  where  it  has 
been  that  of  ambitious  conquest  the  conquering  leader 
trembles  to  disband  it  amid  the  quietudes  of  home.  He 
seeks  by  triumphs  and  marches,  by  pomp  and  amusement 
to  allay  the  spirit  which  the  demon  of  war  has  conjured  up. 
It  was  thus  that  the  Olympic  games,  the  contests  of  the 
Coliseum,  the  combat  of  the  gladiator,  the  pangs  of  the 
martyred  Christian,  each  in  turn  became  national  in 
their  character,  and  were  made  subservient  in  allaying 
temporary  excitement  by  affording  a  diverting  channel, 
while  they  served  still  to  keep  alive  the  wild  spirit  of 
bloodshed. 

Trajan  had  returned  victorious  from  the  East.  He 
was  marching  towards  Rome  with  a  soldiery  enriched 
by  spoils,  and  made  sensual  by  the  seductions  of  cli- 
mate. Even  he  had  not  escaped  the  exhilaration  of 
power ;  a  prouder  defiance  grew  upon  his  lip,  a  more 
arrogant  assumption  of  Roman  dignity,  a  keener  per- 
ception of  any  infringement  of  Roman  supremacy. 

In  the  course  of  his  homeward  march  he  had  heard 
much  of  the  strange  growth  of  that  new  sect,  that 
seemed  to  thrive  just  in  proportion  to  the  means  adopted 
to  root  it  out.  He  remembered  the  glorious  temples  of 
Rome,  where  if  religion  were  not  a  sentiment,  it  was  a 
grand  and  imposing  pageant,  and  he  felt  a  glow  of 
indignation  against  the  advocates  of  a  faith  who  would 
desert  the  public  altars,  and  take  no  share  in  the  sublime 
festivals  of  a  great  people.  He  vowed  that  those  who 
would  not  share  should  become  a  part  of  the  festival. 
A  believer  in  mysteries,  but  a  contemner  of  faith,  master 
of  an  inflexible  will,  subdued  only  by  the  invincible  in 


GOD  WILL  APPOINT  A  DELIVEREE.      97 

« 

fate,  life  became  a  mechanism,  and  death  a  destiny,  and 
he  felt  no  remorse  in  crushing  that  which  might  oppose 
the  one,  while  he  believed  the  Fates  would  decide  the 
other. 

When  too  did  ever  Persecution  stop  to  justify  her 
measures  ! 

Always  delighting  in  pomp,  Trajan  marshalled  his 
forces  with  even  more  than  wonted  splendour  on  entering 
the  fair  city  of  Antioch.  Triumphal  marches  and  impe- 
rial shows  delighted  the  people  of  a  voluptuous  climate, 
and  the  seductions  of  music  added  but  another  thrill  to 
nerves  already  attenuated  to  effeminacy. 

In  the  midst  of  this  princely  splendour,  the  Emperor 
saw  on  all  sides  evidences  of  the  progress  of  the  new 
faith.  The  symbol  of  the  cross  often  met  his  eye, 
betokening  a  follower  of  the  Prophet  of  Nazareth.  In- 
censed at  this  departure  from  the  usage  of  the  Romans, 
he  issued  an  edict  forbidding  the  exercise  of  their  pecu- 
liar rites,  and  calling  upon  its  followers  to  renounce  their 
heresies  and  conform  to  the  recognised  worship  of  Rome. 
Many  made  a  hurried  escape  from  the  impending  storm, 
while  others,  feeble  and  unsustained  by  an  earnest  faith 
in  the  doctrines  they  had  adopted,  abjured  the  same  in 
the  first  moment  of  peril,  leaving  those  whose  con- 
sciences would  admit  of  no  compromise,  to  "  tread  the 
wine-press  alone." 

Ignatius  was  one  of  the  first  consigned  to  a  prison, 
which  was  soon  filled  with  a  pale  yet  resolute  band,  who 
would  yield  life  sooner  than  principle.  For  these  the 
stake,  the  cross,  and  the  arena  swimming  with  the  blood 
of  human  victims,  were  in  daily  requisition.  In  the 
9 


98 


THE    OPAL. 


excitement  of  the  times  small  effort  was  necessary  to 
procure  the  death  of  obnoxious  individuals ;  private 
pique  found  abundant  pretence  in  its  zeal  for  public 
security,  and  the  arena  was  never  barren  of  its  prey. 

Ignatius  sat  in  the  midst  of  his  attentive  disciples, 
whom  he  had  been  exhorting  to  constancy  at  the  same 
time  that  he  more  clearly  impressed  upon  their  minds 
the  spiritual  and  life-giving  nature  of  their  faith,  when 
the  bolts  were  withdrawn  and  the  keeper  thrust  another 
victim  into  the  already  crowded  space. 

The  patriarch  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  beheld  Nerissa 
the  flower  girl  of  Antioch,  standing  with  her  eyes 
strained  in  her  effort  to  adapt  them  to  the  dimness  of  the 
room ;  one  hand  was  half  extended  as  if  to  ward  off  what- 
ever might  molest  her,  while  the  other  firmly  grasped  a 
mantle  to  her  breast,  that,  sweeping  in  heavy  folds, 
nearly  concealed  her  whole  figure.  Her  brow  was  con- 
tracted sharply,  her  lips  compressed,  and  her  face  ashy 
pale. 

Laying  aside  the  manuscript  which  he  had  been  ex- 
pounding, Ignatius  arose  to  his  feet  and  laid  his  hand 
paternally  upon  her  head,  "  God  tempereth  the  wind  to 
the  shorn  lamb,  my  daughter,"  and  he  placed  her  upon 
the  rude  seat  beside  him  and  then  lifted  up  his  voice  in 
prayer. 

The  holy  duty  closed,  Ignatius  turned  to  Nerissa,  who 
sat  motionless  as  a  statue,  her  hands  clasped,  and  appa- 
rently unconscious  of  all  about  her.  A  female  prisoner 
approached  her  gently  with  a  few  words  of  comfort,  at 
which  the  girl  lifted  up  her  eyes,  looked  anxiously  into 
her  face,  and  her  eyes  slowly  suffused  with  tears ;  but 


GOD    WILL    APPOINT    A    DELIVERER.  99 

she  shook  her  head  mournfully  and  motioned  her  away. 
"  Blessed  are  ye  when  men  shall  persecute  you,"  per- 
sisted her  kindly  companion  in  captivity. 

"  Me  !  me  !"  cried  Nerissa  passionately,  "  I  am  not 
persecuted  for  the  faith.  I  hardly  know  of  the  doctrines 
of  Jesus.  Believe  it  not  that  I  perish  for  the  truth.. 
Ye  gods,  if  indeed  ye  have  an  existence,  why  are  we 
tortured  with  affections  like  these  if  they  bring  only  ruin 
and  misery  upon  us  !" 

"  Daughter,"  said  the  patriarch,  and  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  head,  "  there  is  One  who  knoweth  our  frame, 
who  remembereth  we  are  but  dust." 

Nerissa  sank  on  her  knees  before  the  holy  man,  and 
with  clasped  hands  exclaimed, 

"  Oh  !  that  I  knew  more  of  him — the  Unknown 
God  !  There  must  be  comfort  in  your  faith,  for  ye  are 

tranquil but "     And  she  covered  her  face  with 

her  hands  and  was  silent. 

"  What  wouldst  thou  say,  daughter  ?"  said  Ignatius. 

Nerissa's  voice  was  scarcely  audible  as  she  replied, 
"  Ye  are  ready  to  die  for  your  religion,  because  ye 
have  not  tasted  of  human  love." 

Ignatius  bent  his  head  till  his  white  locks  were 
scattered  amid  the  clustering  curls  of  the  pale  girl  who 
still  knelt  at  his  feet,  and  the  frame  of  the  strong  man 
was  shaken  with  inward  emotion.  These  few  words, 
so  faintly  uttered,  had  thrilled  every  breast  in  that  sad 
circle — a  momentary  silence  prevailed,  a  sob  was  heard, 
a  groan,  and  then  one  deep  and  yearning  wail  burst 
from  every  lip.  Nerissa  arose  to  her  feet,  she  pressed 
her  hands  wildly  upon  her  brow,  she  looked  around  upon 


100  THE    OPAL. 

the  pale  group  hitherto  so  calm,  so  dispassioned,  and 
her  own  griefs  became  merged  in  those  about  her. 

At  this  moment  the  keeper  reappeared  and  ordered 
the  patriarch  to  follow  him.  Nerissa  gathered  her 
mantle  about  her,  put  her  arm  within  his  and  moved 
to  the  door  ;  there  was  a  slight  questioning,  but  she 
persisted  in  her  determination,  and  was  soon  on  her 
way  to  the  imperial  presence.  Not  a  word  was  spoken, 
and  they  moved  onward  amid  Roman  guards,  depend- 
ents of  the  court,  and  gay-clad  patricians,  scarcely 
conscious  that  a  human  eye  was  upon  them,  so  absorb- 
ing were  the  inward  emotions  of  each. 

Arrived  in  the  presence  of  Trajan,  the  patriarch 
bowed  in  obeisance  with  a  dignity  that  told  of  one  not 
unfamiliar  with  the  usages  of  courts,  and  then  he  stood 
with  his  arms  meekly  folded,  waiting  the  imperial  will. 

"  I  have  been  told  thou  art  at  the  head  of  this  new 
and  dangerous  sect,  that  soweth  sedition  wherever  it 
exists.  I  have  sent  for  thee  to  know  what  thou  wilt 
say  for  thyself,  and  in  behalf  of  thy  doctrine." 

"  For  myself  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  rejoined  Igna- 
tius meekly  ;  "  I  am  a  shock  of  corn  fully  ripe,  ready 
for  the  harvest.  If  it  be  the  Master's  will  that  I  be  now 
gathered,  lo !  I  am  ready  !" 

"  Yet  I  would  know  more  of  thee,"  resumed  the  Em- 
peror, "  I  would  learn  something  of  the  Prophet  of 
Judea,  whom  I  have  heard  thine  eyes  have  looked  upon." 

A  glow  of  enthusiasm  lighted  the  pale  face  of  the 
patriarch,  a  slight  colour  mantled  his  cheek,  and  he 
raised  his  eyes  upward  as  in  adoration. 

"  These  eyes  did  behold  Him  of  whom  the  prophets 


GOD    WILL    APPOINT   A    DELIVERER.          101 

and  the  law  spake  ;  this  unworthy  head  has  received  the 
blessing  from  lips  that  spake  '  as  never  man  spake.' " 

The  Emperor  half  arose  from  his  throne,  impressed 
with  irresistible  awe  in  the  presence  of  that  venerable 
man,  who  seemed  invested  as  with  a  glory  while  thus 
speaking,  and  whose  lip  was  wreathed  with  an  almost 
infantile  smile,  the  same  it  may  be  that  he  wore  when 
on  his  mother's  knee  at  the  time  she  brought  him  to 
Jesus.  The  words  were  few  and  scarcely  comprehended 
by  his  pagan  auditors,  yet  an  internal  sense  seemed  to 
emanate  from  the  speaker  that  carried  with  them  a 
mysterious  power.  He  was  silent  a  moment ;  and  then 
dropping  his  head  and  turning  to  Nerissa  he  resumed, 

"  For  myself  I  have  little  to  say,  most  noble  Trajan, 
for  bondage  and  death  are  as  nothing  to  him  who  is  free 
and  alive  in  Jesus,  but  for  this  maiden  I  would  beg 
releasement.  She  understandeth  not  the  doctrines  for 
which  we  suffer ;  she  is  yet  wedded  to  her  idols.  She 
cannot  suffer  for  the  truth's  sake,  for  she  comprehendeth 
it  not." 

"  Why  is  she  in  bondage  then  ?  I  would  know  of 
this  matter.  Maiden,  why  art  thou  given  over  to  the 
authorities  ?" 

"  I  am  a  Christian,"  said  Nerissa  in  a  low  voice. 

Ignatius  recoiled  from  her  side,  and  fixed  his  keen 
eyes  upon  her  face,  and  then  in  a  tone  of  sorrow  and 
reproof  he  answered  her— 

"  Nerissa,  it  is  a  fearful  thing  to  lie  unto  the  Holy 

Ghost.     It  is  but  now  that  thou  didst  abjure  it,  and  spake 

of  other  reasons  for  thy  imprisonment.    Child,  child,  thou 

art  no  believer ;  I  would  thou  wert ;  but  if  death  be  the 

9* 


102  THE    OPAL. 

thing  thou  courtest,  do  not,  I  beseech  thee,  seek  it  in  the 
way  that  will  peril  thine  own  soul,  even  with  falsehood 
upon  thy  lips!" 

Nerissa  did  not  lift  up  her  eyes  to  this  stern  rebuke, 
but  meekly  reiterated,  "  I  am  a  Christian,  father." 

The  patriarch  shook  his  head  mournfully.  "  Nay, 
God  forgive  thee,  thou  art  no  Christian.  He  will 
appoint  thee  a  deliverance,  for  it  would  be  but  sacrilege 
to  offer  thee  upon  his  altar." 

"  Now  by  the  gods,"  cried  Trajan,  "  thou  art  a  per- 
jured old  man,  who  hast  come  hither  hoping  to  release 
the  maiden  by  dissembling  the  truth.  But  ye  shall 
neither  of  ye  escape.  Gods  !  but  I  like  her  constancy, 
and  it  shall  be  worthily  tested — but  as  for  thee,  old 
man,  I  will  more  of  thee.  Thou  shalt  to  Rome,  where 
despatches  urge  our  return.  Rest  thee  assured  thy 
falsehood  shall  avail  thee  nothing  for  the  girl." 

"  God  will  appoint  a  deliverer,"  returned  Ignatius,  as 
with  the  voice  of  prophecy. 

"  Hope  it  not,  hope  it  not ! — she  dies  !"  replied  the 
Emperor  almost  fiercely  as  he  broke  up  the  court ;  and 
the  captives  were  remanded  to  their  prison. 

For  many  hours  all  was  silent  in  that  low  cell,  and 
Nerissa  sat  buried  in  her  mantle,  motionless  and  silent. 
At  length  she  gently  approached  the  feet  of  the  patriarch. 

"  Why  am  I  not  a  Christian,  father  ?  I  am  willing 
to  believe  in  your  gods,  and  to  die  that  I  may  find  that 
happiness  of  which  ye  tell." 

Ignatius  groaned  heavily.  "  Alas,  child,  all  you  say 
but  proves  the  truth  of  my  assertion.  I  will  expound 
the  truth  to  thee,  but  now  thy  carnal  nature  craves 


GOD    WILL    APPOINT    A    DELIVERER.          103 

more  the  love  of  a  human  heart,  than  that  of  the  Holy 
Spirit." 

A  fierce  light  gleamed  in  the  eyes  of  the  girl,  and  she 
drew  herself  proudly  up.  "  No,  Nerissa  is  not  so  weak. 
Love  is  but  a  mockery — a  thing  to  be  bartered  like  the 
basest  merchandise,  to  be  whispered  in  all  ears  and  to 
abide  with  none." 

A  smile,  sad  yet  exceedingly  sweet,  grew  upon  the 
lips  of  the  patriarch. 

"  Yes,  in  this  also  has  light  come  into  the  world.  In 
the  mysteries  of  human  love  is  life  and  immortality  re- 
vealed. Maiden,  that  which  thou  hast  called  love  is  not 
so.  It  is  a  blind  impulse  in  which  the  true  elements  of 
the  soul  are  unawakened,  and  which  must  pass  away. 
But  love  is  holy,  spiritual,  self-sacrificing  and  inde- 
structible. It  is  the  full  soul,  the  mystic  marriage,  and 
can  no  more  die  than  the  soul  itself.  It  is  the  germ  of 
immortality, and  it  shall  grow  forever  in  the  Paradise  of 
God.  Speak  not  irreverently  of  it,  for  it  maketh  us  like 
the  angels  of  heaven,  two  natures  incorporate  in  one." 

Nerissa  listened  half  in  bewilderment,  yet  she  did  not 
fail  to  perceive  a  portion  of  the  truth,  for  she  replied  with 
a  slight  shudder, 

"  I  seek  death,  but  alas,  I  am  no  Christian." 

Death  was  nearer  at  hand  than  the  poor  girl  dreamed. 
The  Emperor  was  eager  to  return  to  Rome,  and  thus  he 
abridged  the  ordinary  preparations  for  public  execution. 
A  temporary  circus  had  been  erected,  in  which  the 
poverty  of  material  was  disguised  by  the  blazonry  of 
arms,  the  waving  of  royal  standards,  drapery  of  ich 
and  gorgeous  textures  and  the  purest  Tyrian  dye.  All 


104  THE    OPAL. 

that  pomp  and  luxury  could  do  to  cast  an  illusion  over 
the  sanguinary  and  cruel  exhibition  about  to  be  presented 
was  brought  in  requisition.  The  fluttering  of  scarfs, 
the  blazonry  of  jewels,  where  wealth  and  beauty  were 
assembled  ;  the  pendent  garlands,  and  burning  incense, 
the  gleaming  of  shield  and  cuirass,  the  stirring  notes 
of  wild  and  exciting  music,  and  the  mutually  stimulating 
action  of  human  masses,  all  combined  to  wake  an  eager 
thirst  for  something  on  which  the  animal  excitement  thus 
engendered  might  wreak  its  expression. 

When  therefore  a  pale  slender  youth  was  led  into  the 
arena,  and  stood  one  moment  with  eyes  lifted  upward, 
and  the  next  an  elephant  of  the  largest  size  rushed  in- 
ward with  trunk  aloft,  and  a  human  body  was  whirled 
far  above  the  heads  of  the  spectators  and  then  fell  dead 
at  the  feet  of  the  enraged  animal,  there  was  a  pause  of 
breathless  silence,  and  then  a  tumultuous  shout  broke 
from  the  immense  crowd,  which  thus  found  relief  from 
its  pent-up  energies. 

Round  and  round  rushed  the  infuriated  beast,  now 
uttering  uncouth  snorts  and  now  tossing  the  lifeless 
body,  and  again  the  portal  opened  while  the  animal  was 
at  its  farthest  point,  and  another  victim  was  thrust  in- 
ward. A  dead  pause — he  detects  the  new  object  and 
rushes  onward.  He  stops — his  fore  feet  are  thrust  out- 
ward and  trunk  in  the  air — the  huge  carcass  trembles — 
slowly  the  trunk  sinks  downward,  and  he  kneels  before 
the  almost  unconscious  being. 

It  was  the  flower  girl  of  Antioch,  and  as  in  mockery 
they  had  crowned  her  head  with  a  chaplet  of  flowers, 
and  now  she  stood  with  her  arms  crushed  to  her  boson), 


GOD    WILL    APPOINT    A    DELIVERER.          106 

and  face  passionless  as  marble.  One  glance  and  she 
uttered  a  wild  cry  and  threw  her  arms  about  the  trunk 
of  Porous. 

A  brief  space,  and  the  creature  swayed  her  to  and  fro, 
tranquillized  with  delight,  and  those  strange  eyes  emitting 
their  peculiar  fire,  which  had  in  them  that  wondrous  look 
approaching  to  human  tenderness. 

A  brief  space,  and  he  rushes  forward  bearing  all 
before  him  ;  portal  and  guards  are  crushed  by  his  weight, 
and  barriers  are  but  cobwebs  to  his  fierce  strength. 
Heedless  of  the  crowd,  heedless  of  the  yells  of  the 
terrified  multitude,  he  tramples  onward,  bearing  his 
precious  burden  with  superhuman  care  beyond  the  city, 
and  away  to  the  free  wilderness. 

God  had  appointed  a  deliverer ! 


CHRIST  BY  THE  WELL  OF  SYCHAR. 

BY  REV.  GEORGE  W.  BETHUNE,  D.D. 

"My  meat  is  to  do  the  will  of  Him  that  sent  me." 

UPON  the  well  by  Sychar's  gate, 
At  burning  noon  the  Saviour  sate, 
Athirst  and  hungry  from  the  way 
His  feet  had  trod  since  early  day. 
The  twelve  had  gone  to  seek  for  food, 
And  left  him  in  his  solitude. 

They  come — and  spread  before  him  there, 
With  faithful  haste,  the  pilgrim  fare, 
And  gently  bid  him,  "  Master,  eat !" 
But  God  had  sent  him  better  meat, 
And  there  is  on  his  lowly  brow 
Nor  weariness,  nor  faintness  now ; 

For  while  they  sought  the  market-place, 
His  words  had  won  a  soul  to  grace, 


CHRIST    BY    THE    WELL    OF    SYCHAB.          107 

And  when  he  set  that  sinner  free 
From  bonds  of  guilt  and  infamy, 
His  heart  grew  strong  with  joy  divine, 
More  than  the  strength  of  bread  and  wine. 

So,  Christian,  when  thy  faith  grows  feint, 
Amidst  the  toils  that  throng  the  saint, 
Ask  God,  that  thou  mayst  peace  impart 
Unto  some  other  human  heart ; 
And  thou  thy  Master's  joy  shall  share, 
E'en  while  his  cross  thy  shoulders  bear. 


THOUGHTS. 

BY  REV.  HERMAN  HOOKER, 
AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  PORTION  OP  THE  SOUL,"  ETC. 

I.    THE  HEAHT. 

THE  heart  is  a  garden  where  all  that  is  wholesome  and 
delightful  has  claim  to  grow,  but  a  garden  which  we  have 
turned  into  a  heath:  it  is  a  fountain  where  all  knowledge 
should  spring,  but  a  fountain  which  our  corruptions  have 
sealed  up :  it  is  a  book  once  plain  and  legible,  but  a  book 
now  so  interlined  with  the  insertion  of  our  good  works,  and 
defaced  with  the  erasure  of  our  misdeeds,  that  we  cannot 
read  our  own  history  in  it,  though  it  be  as  one  written 
with  our  own  hand. 

II.  UNBELIEF. 

Ignorance  of  God  is  a  great  cause  of  unbelief,  and 
we  must  fed  after  him  by  knowledge  before  we  can 
reasonably  expect  to  find  him  by  faith.  We  must  be 
persuaded  of  our  ignorance  before  we  can  become 
wise  by  an  understanding  of  what  wisdom  is.  We 
must  search  the  Scriptures  and  through  them  come 
first  to  the  "  break  of  day."  They  have  an  evidence  in 
them  which  is  not  seen  by  glances  ;  they  have  a  fire  in 


THOUGHTS.  109 

them  which  must  be  mused  upon,  before  it  will  begin  to 
burn  ;  like  the  heavens,  they  have  lights  and  wonders  in 
them,  which  are  not  seen  by  common  gazers,  and  though 
they  may  receive  them  upon  the  report  of  others  to 
whom  they  have  come  as  by  observation,  they  will  still 
be  as  things  of  which  they  have  no  knowledge,  and 
with  which  they  have  no  means  of  communication. 

III.    IRRESISTIBLE  POWER  OF  TRUTH. 

There  are  truths  so  immense  and  glorious,  that  when 
we  really  credit  them,  though  the  heart  should  be  op- 
posed to  them,  they  will  still  take  hold  of  us  in  so  many 
ways  that  we  cannot  escape  from  their  impression  ;  and 
the  very  attempt  to  do  so,  will  but  make  us  the  more 
sensible  of  our  trouble,  as  he  would  be,  who  should  shut 
his  eyes  to  rid  himself  of  a  pain,  or  run  to  get  out  of 
the  light  of  day — what  then  must  be  the  impression,  the 
power  of  faith  when  the  heart  accords  with  its  object  ? 

IV.    INDIFFERENCE  TO  GOD. 

As  God  has  given  reason  to  man,  thus  making  him  a 
noble  and  a  knowing  creature,  it  is  very  singular  that 
he  should  only  employ  that  reason  in  his  social  acts  and 
duties ;  that  he  should  perform  his  relative  offices  with 
such  design  and  constancy,  as  that  his  whole  life  may 
be  compared  to  a  volume  written  with  forecast  of  the 
ends  it  should  answer,  while  the  thoughts  and  acts  which 
signify  a  recognition  of  God,  are  but  the  parentheses, 
which  might  be  left  out  without  breaking  the  sense,  or  . 
without  so  much  as  blemishing  the  morality  of  the 
author. 

10 


110  THE    OPAL. 

V.    A  PECULIARITY  OF  THE  KNOWLEDGE  OF  GOD 
IN  CHRIST. 

In  Christ  the  knowledge  of  God  is  let  down  to  our 
sympathies,  and  becomes  a  part  as  well  as  the  treasure 
of  them.  To  know  him  is  to  know  God  in  a  way  that 
is  as  obliging  as  it  is  condescending,  and  should  be  as 
grateful  as  it  is  honourable  to  our  nature.  It  is  no 
difficult  science  which  we  are  to  learn,  rift  cold  abstrac- 
tion which  we  are  to  study,  but  the  simple  truth  set  off 
in  life,  and  coming  to  us  all  animated  as  with  our  own 
sympathies  ;  it  is  a  knowledge  proposed  to  us  warm  as 
with  the  kindliest  affection  for  us,  and  commended  as  a 
tried  experience  of  our  necessities. 

VI.    LOVE  OF  GOD. 

God  known,  we  must  needs  love,  as  we  will  always 
love  that  which  is  most  lovely  to  our  sense  ;  and  we 
must  needs  seek  him  too,  as  we  will  always  seek  that 
which  appears  most  desirable,  and  he  is  really  so 
desirable,  that  our  loving  him  shall  make  him  ever 
appear  more  and  more  so  for  ever;  and  so  shall  our 
love  overcome  the  world,  as  we  cannot  but  feel  ourselves 
masters  of  it,  when  we  have  an  object  that  fills  us  with 
desires  and  hopes  carrying  us  upward,  and  making  us 
both  happy  and  worthy  to  be  so. 

VII.    TYPES. 

Our  unworthy  thoughts  and  suspicions  of  God  are 
but  the  types  and  shadows  of  ourselves,  pointing  to 
those  revelations  of  great  depravity  with  which  we  may 
yet  astonish  all  but  ourselves. 


THOUGHTS.  Ill 

VIII.   TRUE  DIGNITY. 

It  is  proof  enough  how  little  we  know  of  the  temper 
of  Christ,  that  we  have  so  little  patience  with  his 
station  in  the  world.  We  seem  not  to  know  how  to  be 
honoured,  and  are  ever  found  seeking  honour  from  that 
which  could  confer  no  honour  on  him.  We  seem  to 
value  wise  heads  more  than  good  hearts.  He  had.  all 
wisdom  and  understood  all  mysteries,  yet  he  made  no 
display  of  knowledge,  but  confined  himself  to  magnify 
the  law  of  God.  Should  we  do  so,  or  expend  as  much 
to  improve  our  hearts  as  heads,  we  should  be  surprising 
proficients  in  goodness.  But  we  do  not  see  this  subject 
as  he  saw  it.  We  are  in  the  wrong ;  we  have  lost  the 
secret  of  true  greatness  and  aspire  not  thereto. 

IX.    HUMBLENESS  OF  FAITH. 

Faith  is  not  apt  to  turn  chooser  of  the  bounties  of 
God,  but  attaches  chief  value  to  that  which  bears  the 
clearest  stamp  of  his  will.  It  indulges  no  large  expecta- 
tion, especially  no  immoderate  craving  of  temporal  good, 
well  assured  that  but  little  can  be  lost  here  at  most,  and 
that  nothing  can  be  intended  to  afford  us  rest  which  we 
must  so  soon  leave,  and  our  fondness  for  which  is  so  apt 
to  turn  to  our  harm. 

X.    IMPORT  OF  NATURAL  VIRTUES. 

The  virtues  of  the  natural  man  resemble  the  motions 
in  the  limbs  and  heart  of  an  animal,  when  the  head  is 
severed  from  the  body.  They  are  symptoms  of  a  moral 
life  that  of  itself  must  come  to  nothing ;  but  as  this  is 
all  the  life  he  has,  an  image  of  life,  and  that  only  of 


112  THE    OPAL. 

life  in  death,  how  great  his  weakness  !  and  how  sure  is  he 
without  the  aid  of  a  sustaining  power  to  go  downwards 
in  his  growth  ! 

XI.    CONTRARIETIES  INSTRUCTIVE. 

Contrariety  of  human  character  to  the  demands  of 
the  Christian  religion,  is  just  what  we  should  expect 
from  a  system  proposing  the  elevation  of  man,  and 
bringing  against  him  the  charge  of  guilt.  If  it  were 
not  so,  it  would  command  little  reverence  from  him,  and 
he  would  turn  it  off  as  impertinent  to  his  wants,  or  as 
incompetent  to  the  task  of  convincing  him  of  his  guilt, 
or  of  delivering  from  it,  should  he  be  convinced.  Our 
exception  to  it  then  is  but  a  plea  in  its  behalf,  a  calling 
in  question  of  the  wisdom  of  God  in  a  way  that  does 
both  prove  it,  and  our  incapacity  of  judging  in  the  case. 
Both  our  complaints  against  the  system,  and  our  mis- 
conceptions of  it  may  be  safely  understood  to  presume 
its  truth,  the  one  as  arguing  our  guilt,  the  other  as 
showing  our  ignorance, — and  both  as  attesting  our  need 
of  the  relief  which  it  brings,  and  proving  its  excellency 
to  be  above  our  experience  and  taste,  and  therefore 
worthy  of  the  divine  descent  which  it  claims. 

XII.    SPIRITUAL  DEADNESS. 

We  have  eyes  and  see  not,  ears  and  hear  not  there  is 
a  God.  There  is  a  voice  as  that  of  sweetest  music  in 
the  promises  and  provisions  of  his  grace,  and  the  bless- 
ings of  friendship,  peace  and  plenty  ;  there  is  a  noise 
as  that  of  thunder  in  the  threatenings  of  his  word  and  in 


THOUGHTS.  113 

the  judgments  that  are  abroad  in  the  earth  ;  but  we  dis- 
cern not  that  this  melody,  or  this  noise,  comes  from  him. 
Not  only  do  we  not  hear  him  in  the  sound  of  these  and 
all  his  organs,  but  we  neither  know  nor  hear,  when  he 
comes  out  of  the  whirlwind  and  the  cloud,  and  the 
promises,  and  speaks  to  us,  as  it  were,  "  face  to  face," 
yea,  and  with  his  own,  his  full  voice,  in  Jesus  Christ. 
Alas  !  that  the  Creator  should  so  spend  the  riches  of  his 
power  and  wisdom  in  filling  up  and  furnishing  this  their 
earthly  habitation,  and  the  more  exceeding  riches  of  his 
grace  that  he  might  exalt  them  to  fellowship  with  him- 
self, and  still  find  it  so  difficult,  let  alone  their  heart,  to 
gain  the  eye  or  the  ear  of  his  creatures  ! 

XIII.    RESIGNATION. 

In  the  world  there  is  nothing  durable ;  and  if  there 
were,  it  would  not  be  suitable  to  us,  because  how  long 
soever  that  might  last  in  itself,  yet  we  could  not  last 
to  enjoy  it.  Though  our  temporal  goods  and  comforts 
were  not  moveable,  yet  we  are  ;  though  they  might  stay 
with  us,  yet  we  could  not  stay  with  them ;  and  though 
they  should  procure  many  advantages  and  pleasures  for 
us,  even  that  would  make  the  pain  and  loss  of  parting 
with  them  greater,  and  by  attaching  us  to  life  here, 
might  cheat  us  out  of  life  hereafter  ;  so  that,  content, 
ment  with  an  ill  lot,  is  not  less  called  for  by  reason  than 
piety,  and  would  seem  not  to  be  the  difficult  virtue  it  is 
so  often  esteemed  to  be. 

XIV. 

A  supreme  fondness  for  any  creature  presumes  that 
10* 


114  THE    OPAL. 

we  do  not  perceive  any  worthier  object,  or  perceiving, 
do  not  relish  it ;  and  if  we  had  done  no  other  wrong,  we 
need  not  go  further  for  proof  of  our  utter  depravity  and 
our  utter  incapacity  of  advancing  in  excellence,  till  we 
see  and  relish  something  better. 

XV.    CAUSES  OF  NOT  SEEKING  THE  HEAVENLY  WISDOM. 

It  is  not  the  requisite  effort  that  deters  us  from  the 
pursuit  of  divine  knowledge,  but  our  low  appreciation  of 
the  great  interest  we  have  in  it.  Did  we  not  fail  in  this 
sense,  we  should  not  wonder  that  we  are  required  to  do 
so  much,  but  that  so  much  may  be  gained  by  the  little 
that  we  can  do.  Our  first  wonder  would  be  that  there 
is  a  heaven  for  us,  our  greater  wonder  that  it  should  be 
procured  at  an  expense  so  great,  that  we  cannot  tell 
which  is  greatest,  the  love  which  bore  it,  or  the  guilt 
which  made  it  necessary.  Our  strongest  desire  to  be 
there,  would  be,  that  we  may  "  be  for  ever  with  the 
Lord,"  who  is  such,  and  could  love  us  so,  that  our  loving 
him  is  not  so  much  his  will  as  our  privilege,  and  not  so 
much  his  glory  as  we  would  make  it  ours.  And  so 
would  our  faith  call  off  our  thoughts  from  the  world 
and  turn  them  to  heaven,  with  designs  and  desires  car- 
rying us  there. 

XVI.    INDIFFERENCE  TOWARD  GOD. 

To  be  able  to  think  of  God  as  a  being  proper  to  wor- 
ship ;  to  be  capable  of  a  religious  sentiment,  of  a  spiritual 
advancement,  and  attend  not  thereto ;  to  trust  all  which 
we  own  to  be  most  important  to  casual  thoughts,  thoughts 
which  we  neither  bid  nor  heed — is  a  forfeit  of  our  title 
to  the  rank  of  rational  creatures. 


THOUGHTS.  115 

XVII.    NATURAL  VIRTUE. 

Should  we  note  the  developements  of  human  character 
around  us ;  should  we  reason  from  what  transpires  in 
our  own  bosoms,  we  should  be  convinced  that  the  mo- 
rality of  secular  men  is  in  general  "  a  vain  show,"  not 
like  the  oak  that  strikes  its  roots  deeper  and  stronger  in 
its  foundation,  while  its  branches  spread  and  aspire  to 
the  skies,  but  like  a  feather  in  the  air,  sure  to  obey  the 
direction  of  the  wind,  to  rise  and  fall  with  it,  yet  settling 
down,  down  at  every  intermission,  till  it  fastens  on  the 
earth,  and  is  seen  to  rise  no  more.  Their  motives  are 
such  as  they  might  have  if  there  were  no  God,  and  if 
they  have  any  respect  for  him,  it  is  a  respect  of  fear,  not 
of  love  ;  it  is  a  mere  observing,  hardly  a  fearing,  of  his 
thunder ;  a  flash  of  guilt  that  vanishes  with  thought ; 
something  like  our  daily  noticing  of  the  sun,  not  as  any 
thing  we  have  to  do  with  or  think  of,  except  as  it  serves 
or  incommodes  ourselves. 

XVIII.    INDECISION. 

The  same  indecision  in  worldly  affairs  which  we 
manifest  in  spiritual,  would  indicate  an  abandonment  of 
our  proper  nature,  and  whatever  we  may  think  of  it  as 
affecting  the  higher  concerns  of  eternity,  certain  it  is 
that  it  cannot  be  the  fruit  of  considering  them ;  and  not 
to  consider  them  when  we  admit  our  high  concernment 
in  them,  and  are  summoned  to  it  by  so  many  arguments 
of  invitation  and  as  with  the  alarm  voice  of  the  spirit 
within  us,  is  to  despise  and  reject  them  as  in  our  slum- 
bers, and  to  become  unbelievers,  if  not  by  the  action  of 
our  reason,  yet  by  the  chance  of  our  indifference. 


116  THE    OPAL. 

XIX.    FAITH. 

The  faith  of  believers  overcomes  the  world  by  spread- 
ing over  it  the  bright  shadowing  of  "  better  things  to 
come."  No  darkness  or  sorrowing  moves  them  out  of 
their  course  of  duty  or  stays  them  in  it ;  like  the  moon, 
when  she  suffers  an  eclipse,  they  continue  on,  losing  no 
motion  and  no  order,  till  they  regain  the  presence  and 
glory  of  which  they  are  deprived.  As  shaken  trees  root 
deeper,  as  the  blast  that  beats  down  the  flame  causes  it 
to  rise  higher,  so  they,  when  brought  low  by  adversity, 
mount  upwards,  or  bind  themselves  closer  to  the  rock 
they  are  resting  on. 

XX.    THE  CALM  OF  FAITH. 

When  we  come  to  try  a  new  condition  we  shall  find  it 
little  better,  perhaps  worse,  than  the  one  that  disaffects 
us  now.  This  will  always  be  the  case  with  people  who 
look  for  enjoyment  in  outward  things.  If  the  affections, 
if  all  on  which  the  thoughts  repose  within,  are  not  right, 
nothing  we  can  gather  around  us  will  make  us  happy. 
We  should  be  able  like  the  bee  to  extract  sweets  from 
the  bitterest  flowers,  and  to  feed  in  inclement  seasons  on 
the  honey  that  is  in  our  hive — that  is,  in  ourselves,  by 
the  treasuring  of  kind  and  pious  affections.  This  should 
be  a  spring  that  rises  clear  and  healthful  when  all  around 
it  is  dry  and  unproductive.  There  is  nothing  so  bitter 
in  our  experience  but  will  yield  a  sweetness  if  we  exer- 
cise our  inward  faculty  to  find  it.  The  friends  and  pos- 
sessions we  are  so  apt  to  depend  on,  are  too  uncertain 
in  their  duration  and  value,  to  make  us  happy,  and  still 
we  will  love  them  too  much  not  to  be  made  miserable 


THOUGHTS.  117 

by  their  loss — ourselves  ever  the  slaves  and  not  the 
masters  of  what  we  possess.  We  boast  of  freedom, 
and  yet  are  held  in  bondage  by  the  little  which  we  call 
our  own,  and  why  should  we  be  perplexed  in  the  search 
for  more,  if  more  will  but  multiply  our  chances?  There 
seems  indeed  to  be  a  repose  in  some  minds  which  out- 
ward things  give,  but  it  is  like  a  storm  sleeping  in  the 
clouds.  It  has  no  self-control,  and  may  be  broken  in  a 
moment.  It  is  a  troubled  sleep.  Thoughts  of  danger, 
which  are  willed  not,  visit  it. 

"  There  is  a  calm  which  is  not  peace, 
Like  that  when  ocean's  tempests  cease  ; 
When  worn  out  with  the  storm,  the  sea 
Sleeps  in  her  dark  tranquillity, 
As  dreading  that  the  slightest  stir 
Would  bring  again  the  winds  on  her." 

There  is  a  calm  too  that  excludes  fear  and  rides  in  all 
storms  unharmed — it  is  the  calm  of  faith,  of  chastened 
and  pure  affections,  a  calm  like  that  in  which  the  Deity 
reposes. 

XXI.    THE  ONLY  UNREGARDED  LOVE. 

How  strange  it  is,  that  God's  love,  so  wonderful  in 
itself,  so  diffused  that  we  see  it  in  every  beauty  and 
taste  it  in  every  enjoyment — a  love  compared  with 
which  the  greatest  love  of  creatures  is  as  a  ray  of  light 
to  the  sun,  and  that  ray  mixed  and  darkened,  should  be 
lost  on  creatures  whose  love  for  the  gentler  and  worthier 
qualities  of  each  other,  runs  so  often  into  rapture  and 
devotion  ! 


118  THE    OPAL. 

XXII.    TO  A.  MOTHER  ON  LOSING  AN  INFANT  DAUGHTER. 

God  does  nothing  without  a  reason.  That  reason 
may  have  respect  to  you — it  may  have  respect  to  your 
child,  and  not  unlikely  to  both.  He  sees  effects  in  their 
causes.  Your  case  may  have  been  this  :  you  may  have 
been  in  danger  of  loving  the  world  too  much,  and  he  re- 
moved the  cause  in  time.  Her  case  may  have  been  this  : 
she  may  have  been  in  danger  from  the  growth  of  a  cor- 
rupt nature,  and  he  took  her  in  the  bud  of  being  that  she 
might  grow  without  imperfection,  "  for  of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven."  Think  of  your  child  then  not  as 
dead  but  as  living,  not  as  a  flower  that  is  withered,  but 
as  one  that  is  transplanted,  and,  touched  by  a  divine  hand, 
is  blooming  in  richer  colours  and  sweeter  shades  than 
those  of  earth,  though  to  your  eyes  these  last  may  have 
been  beautiful,  more  beautiful  than  you  will  hope  to  see 
again. 

"  With  patient  mind  thy  course  of  duty  run, 
God  nothing  does  nor  suffers  to  be  done 
But  thou  wouldst  do  thyself,  if  thou  couldst  see 
The  end  of  all  he  does  as  well  as  he." 


IS  DEATH  THE.  KING  OF  TERRORS  ? 

BY  REV.  GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER. 

IF  you,  O  man,  of  Death  are  bound  in  dread, 
Come  to  this  chamber,  sit  beside  this  bed, 
See  how  the  name  of  Christ,  breathed  o'er  the  heart, 
Makes  the  soul  smile  at  Death's  uplifted  dart ! 

The  air  to  sense  is  close,  that  fills  the  room, 
But  angel  forms  are  waving  through  the  gloom ; 
The  feeble  pulse  leaps  up,  as  'twould  expire, 
But  Christ  still  watches  the  refiner's  fire. 

Life  comes  and  goes, — the  spirit  lingers  on : — 
'Tis  over !  No  !  The  conflict's  not  quite  done ; 
For  Christ  will  work,  till  of  life's  sinful  stain 
No  spot  nor  wrinkle  on  the  soul  remain. 

He  views  his  image  now !  The  victory's  won, 
The  last  dark  shadow  from  his  child  is  drawn ! 
The  veil  is  rent  away  !     In  endless  peace, 
The  soul  beholds  its  Saviour  face  to  face. 

Is  this  death's  seal  ]     The  impression  O  how  fair ! 
Look,  what  a  radiant  smile  is  playing  there ! 
That  was  the  soul's  farewell : — the  sacred  dust 
Awaits  the  resurrection  of  the  just. 


120  THE    OPAL. 

Call  not  the  mourners,  when  the  Christian  dies, 
While  angels  shout  him  welcome  to  the  skies. 
Mourn  rather  for  the  living  dead  on  earth, 
Who  nothing  care  for  his  celestial  birth. 

Death  to  the  bedside  came,  his  prey  to  hold : 
All  he  could  touch  was  but  the  earthly  mould ; 
This  to  its  native  ashes  men  convey — 
The  freed  soul  rises  to  eternal  day  ! 


SLEEP. 

BY  ROBERT  MORRIS,  ESQ. 

REST  for  the  weary — freshness,  strength  and  rest ! 
O  Sleep !  thy  balm  is  to  the  troubled  breast 
As  time  to  sorrow.     Gently  dost  thou  take 
The  arrows  from  the  heart  about  to  break, 
And  with  thy  stealthy  step  and  quiet  eye, 
Around  the  couch  in  grateful  ministry, 
Thy  form  as  noiseless  as  the  foot  of  love, 
Doth  like  the  spirit  of  an  angel  move. 
Upon  the  brow  of  toil  thy  hand  is  laid, 
And  light  and  peace  are  where  were  care  and  shade. 
The  traveller  woos  thee  to  his  turf-formed  pillow, 
The  sea-boy  courts  thee  on  the  tossing  billow. 
Life  may  not  be  without  thee,  gentle  Sleep, 
But  with  thee — mid  the  desert,  on  the  deep—- 
Still to  the  care-worn  heart  some  joy  remains, 
Some  sunny  spot  amid  thy  mystic  plains. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  CHRISTIANITY ; 

THE  WORSHIP  OF  JUPITER,  OR  THE  WORSHIP  OF  CHRIST. 
BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  BROTHERS,"  "  CROMWELL,"  ETC. 

He  heard 

Her  ardent  legate  before  Ctesar's  throne 
Plead  for  his  sacred  country,  and  invoke 
Her  genius,  like  a  soul,  informing  still 
The  limhs  of  her  vast  empire  ;  and  he  thought 
The  spirit  of  Rome's  fortunes  ever  there 
Was  hovering  o'er  them,  and  inspired  his  tongue 
To  strive  for  their  religion,  the  old  rites 
Hallowed  by  custom  and  endeared  by  years 
Of  conquest  and  dominion. 

ATTILA,  B.  iv.  130. 

AGES  had  passed,  long  ages,  since  on  the  green  forest 
tops  of  Rome's  unpeopled  hills  the  shepherd  twins  sat 
watching,  each  in  his  augural  temple,  the  flight  of 
those  fierce  birds  of  prey  which  were  to  give  its  name, 
its  monarch,  and  its  doom  to  the  intended  city  !  since 
Romulus  bedewed  the  trenches  of  his  young  capitol  with 
a  brother's  life-blood,  so  consecrating  it  and  its  inhabi- 
tants, by  the  dread  councils  of  the  Sibyl,  to  the  grim 
patronage  of  Mars,  the  homicidal  god !  Ages  had 
passed  since  Stator  Jove  first  checked  the  panic  flight  of 
the  half-beaten  Romans,  and  crowned  their  refluent 
11 


122  THE    OPAL. 

charge  with  triumph  !  since  in  the  fight  of  Lake  Regillus, 
the  great  twin  brethren,  Castor  and  Pollux,  fought  in  the 
van  of  Rome,  and  laved  their  toil-worn  steeds  in  the  well 
hard  by  Vesta  !  A  mighty  empire  had  grown  up  among 
the  woody  solitudes,  where  the  wolf  howled  and  the 
eagle  yelled  in  undisputed  sovereignty — an  empire  fed  by 
the  blood  of  nations,  and  fostered  by  the  breath  of  battle, 
— her  emblems,  the  most  puissant  bird,  the  most  rapa- 
cious beast  of  prey — her  policy,  incessant  and  unsparing 
warfare — and  her  religion  the  fell  worship  of  grim  idols, 
monstrous  and  terrible  conceptions  of  barbarous  and 
sensual  imaginations  !  A  mighty  empire — the  mightiest 
that  earth  has  ever  witnessed — the  bounds  of  her  domi- 
nions were  the  limits  of  the  then  known  universe — her 
tongue,  the  universal  language — her  law,  the  law  of  na- 
tions— her  history,  the  records  of  the  world  ! 

Ages  had  passed,  and  nations  had  passed  with  them — 
cities  had  crumbled  from  the  earth — races,  victorious 
races,  been  extinguished — or,  if  not  utterly  extinguished, 
so  changed  and  altered  and  debased,  that  no  analysis 
could  trace  the  civilized  and  courtly  hero,  or  the  wild  in- 
dependent savage,  in  the  sleek  flatterer,  or  the  sullen  slave. 
Ages  had  passed,  since  he  whose  conquering  emblem  was 
the  arch-harlot  Venus,  spurred  through  the  Rubicon  to 
win  an  empire,  the  price  of  which  was  death !  Ages,  since 
the  Redeemer,  born  in  the  manger,  expiated  by  the 
felon's  death  on  the  vile  cross  the  sins  of  all  mankind  for 
ever  and  for  ever  ;  and  gave  a  sure  hope  to  the  faithful, 
a  very  present  help  in  time  of  trouble  ! 

The  small,  despised  and  persecuted  sect,  the  few  and 
scattered  remnant  of  the  martyred  people,  had  grown  up 


THE    TRIUMPH    OP    CHRISTIANITY.  123 

year  by  year  into  a  vast  and  countless  multitude.  "  Par- 
thians,  and  Medes,  and  Elamites,  and  the  dwellers  in  Me- 
sopotamia, and  in  Judea,  and  Cappadocia,  in  Pontus,  and 
in  Asia,  Phrygia  and  Pamphylia,  in  Egypt,  and  in  the 
parts  of  Libya  about  Gyrene,  and  strangers  of  Rome,  Jews 
and  proselytes,  Cretesand  Arabians,"  had  heard  and  be- 
lieved the  wonderful  works  of  God,  had  taken  up  the  cross 
of  his  ever-blessed  Son,  and  cried  aloud  through  the  ut- 
termost nations  the  glorious  tidings  of  the  one  faith  that 
leadeth  to  salvation — the  one  faith  that  shall  ere  long 
compass  the  round  world  with  its  glory,  and  fill  the  uni- 
verse with  hope  and  happiness  and  peace. 

The  statue  of  winged  Victory  had  been  removed 
already  from  the  chamber,  wherein — convoked  no  longer 
within  the  precincts  of  a  heathen  temple — the  senate  held 
their  consultations ;  and,  although  it  had  been  restored 
by  the  apostate  Julian,  and  tolerated  for  a  while  by  Va- 
lentinian,  by  an  edict  of  Gratian  it  had  been  finally  and 
for  ever  banished  from  the  Julian  Curia.  The  emperors, 
however,  had  waged  no  farther  war  than  this  jagainst  the 
old  religion  ;  the  statues  of  the  antique  gods  still  claimed 
the  superstitious  veneration  of  the  multitude;  above  four 
hundred  temples,  chapels,  and  shrines  remained  to  satisfy 
the  popular  devotion  ;  and  still  the  fumes  of  sacrifice  and 
holocaust  went  up  to  the  offended  heavens.  Still  the 
mad  orgies  of  the  Dionysian  rout,  chanting  their  furious 
dithyrambs,  wielding  the  ivied  thyssus,  and  frenzied  by 
the  red  blood  of  the  grape,  made  the  night  hideous  with 
their  dissonant  and  furious  exclamations.  Still  the  emas- 
culate priests  of  Cybele  beat  the  dread  drum  and  clanged 
the  brazen  cymbal  in  loathsome  mimicry  of  the  de- 


124  THE    OPAL. 

merited  Atys.  Still  the  helmed  Salii  leaped  with  their 
flowery  tunics  and  bright  breastplates,  bearing  in  trusty 
guardianship  those  sacred  shields  of  Mars,  with  which 
Rome's  date  of  glory  was  esteemed  coequal. 

The  legions,  it  is  true,  were  now  no  longer  mustered 
under  the  golden  effigies  of  wolf  or  eagle  ;  the  human 
hand  no  longer  was  the  standard  of  the  unconquered 
manipules.  These  had  the  mystic  labarum  replaced,  since 
the  great  day  when  Constantine,  (rushing  down  from  the 
Alps  armed  to  preserve  his  country  from  the  tyrannic 
usurpation  of  Maxentius,)  saw  in  the  bright  Italian  skies 
above  the  noonday  sun,  the  sign  of  the  Redeemer,  a 
broad  and  blazingcross,  and  in  that  emblem  conquered  ! — 
The  labarum,  that  mighty  cross  of  carved  and  jewelled 
gold,  from  which  depended  the  rich  purple  banner  em- 
broidered with  the  monogram  of  the  most  holy  Saviour ! 
And  thus  it  had  been  proved  that  it  was  not  on  the  ancient 
gods  alone,  that  ancient  Roman  valour  depended  for  suc- 
cess and  victory. 

But  heathendom  was  not  content  to  bow  submissive  to 
the  new  faith  of  Jesus.  Those  who  still  held  to  the  time- 
honoured  pagan  creed  were  half  ashamed,  and  half  in- 
dignant, to  succumb  under  the  spiritual  yoke  of  a  reli- 
gion devised  by  fishermen  and  artisans,  undecked  by 
aught  of  glowing  ceremonial,  offering  nothing  to  the 
senses,  inculcating  not  pride,  nor  valour,  nor  renown,  as 
the  virtues  of  the  Christian,  but  the  slave's  attributes  of 
patience  and  humility  and  mute  fortitude  beneath  the  chas- 
tening rod.  Too  intimately  had  the  glories  and  the  gran- 
deur of  old  Rome  been  associated  with  the  worship  of 
the  great  gods  of  old — too  closely  were  all  the  household 


THE    TRIUMPH    OP    CHRISTIANITY.  125 

customs,  all  the  domestic  every-day  observances  of  the 
people,  connected  with  the  old  superstitions  ;  and,  above 
all,  too  deeply  was  the  pride  of  many  of  the  patrician 
houses  engaged  in  the  maintenance  of  a  belief  in  those 
superb  and  sensual  divinities  who  used  whilom  to  walk 
the  earth,  and  from  whose  intercourse  with  some  terres- 
trial beauty  they  boasted  their  own  half-divine  descent — 
that  willingly  or  tamely  they  should  cast  aside  their  high 
pre-eminence  above  the  nations — they,  the  descendants, 
the  peculiar  people,  the  irresistible  and  favoured  race  of 
the  great  Mars  Quirinus. 

The  Christians,  although  numerous,  and  counting  in 
their  assemblages  many  of  the  noblest  of  the  Roman 
houses,  the  race  of  the  Anniades,  the  sons  of  Probus 
and  Anitius,  Brutus  and  Bassus,  and  the  glorious  clan 
of  the  Paulini,  were  still  but  a  minority  among  the  sena- 
tors. By  absence  only  from  the  acts,  profane  though 
legal  still,  of  an  adverse  majority,  could  they  express 
their  hatred  and  disgust  of  the  false  gods  and  fiendish 
ceremonials  which  still  obtained  in  the  empire.  And 
now,  by  the  last  struggling  effort  of  anti-christian  zeal, 
the  embers  of  religious  strife  were  again  fanned  into 
bright  flame.  Three  several  deputations  of  men  the 
most  considerable  and  renowned  in  the  empire,  had 
been  successively  appointed  by  the  Senate  and  the  priest* 
hood,  to  represent  the  grievances  of  the  dishonoured 
gods  of  Rome,  and  to  demand  the  restoration  of  the 
altar  sacred  to  Victory,  and  the  proud  statue  of  the 
winged  goddess,  in  the  hall  of  the  petitioning  assembly. 
The  first  to  Gratian,  who  refused  them  audience  ;  the 
second  to  Valentinian  ;  the  third  to  Theodosius  ;  and 
11* 


126  THE    OPAL. 

now  a  fourth  was  ordered  to  the  three  emperors  united , 
Valentinian,  Theodosius,  and  Arcadius  the  August. 

The  conduct  of  this  all-important  deputation  was  left 
to  one  well  fitted  to  maintain  the  dignities  of  ancient 
customs ;  well  worthy  to  set  forth  the  cause  and  plead 
for  the  infringed  immunities  and  violated  honours  of  dei- 
ties themselves.  Symmachus,  first  and  proudest  orator 
of  his  day,  president  of  the  Senate,  Pontifex  Maximus 
and  chief  of  the  old  college  of  Etruscan  augurs— col- 
lege so  old  that  it  existed  before  the  vast  cloacae  were 
quarried  through  the  hills  of  Rome  by  a  race  long  ago 
extinct,  when  Romulus  built  on  the  Palatine — procon- 
sul of  the  rich  province  of  Africa,  and  prefect  of  the 
city.  Nor  was  a  weaker  or  less  influential  personage 
appointed  by  the  Christians  to  maintain  the  cause  of  the 
Redeemer  against  what  they  believed  to  be  the  powers  of 
darkness. 

For  it  was  not  perhaps  uncharacteristic  of  the  age, 
essentially  addicted  to  credulity  and  superstition,  that 
while  the  pagans  would  have  in  no  respect  objected  to 
the  admission  of  the  God  Christ  to  an  associate  altar 
and  divided  honour  with  Mars  and  Jupiter,  Saturn  and 
Pluto,  and  the  Cyprian  harlot — the  Christians,  instead 
of  setting  down  the  false  gods  of  the  heathens  as  merely 
the  absurd  and  horrible  conceptions  of  the  impure  idola- 
trous imagination  and  unregenerated  heart  of  barbarous 
man,  gave  to  them  a  species  of  grim  and  sublime  autho- 
rity, dignifying  them  as  it  were  into  the  most  puissant  of 
those  rebel  angels  who  fell  with  the  son  of  the  morning ; 
and  who,  as  they  believed,  still  exercised  their  fiendish 
influence  and  hate  of  the  Most  Highest  by  striving  with 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    CHRISTIANITY.  127 

inveterate  malice  to  seduce  men  from  their  allegiance — 
who  still  informed  their  priests,  their  augurs,  and  their 
archimages  with  wisdom  that  pertained  not  to  salvation, 
— still  ruled  the  elements  of  nature — still  spoke  in  the 
dubious  oracle — still  haunted  the  prophetic  shrine. 

Therefore,  to  meet  the  eloquent  and  powerful  advocate 
of  heathen  institutions,  the  Christians  nominated  Am- 
brose, the  venerable,  pious,  and  learned  archbishop  of 
Milan,  to  hold  up  the  pure  faith,  and  plead  for  the  wor- 
ship of  the  one  God,  with  his  one-begotten  Son,  and 
Spirit,  uncreate,  invisible. 

And  now  the  day  had  come  big  with  the  fate  of  more 
than  empires.  Never  so  great  a  plea  was  heard.  Never 
convened  on  grounds  so  great  and  all-impressive  so  gor- 
geous and  time-honoured  an  assembly. 

The  Roman  Senate  ! — how  strange  and  thrilling  are 
the  memories  that  rush  into  the  breast  at  those  then 
little  words.  These  then  were  the  descendants,  the  lineal 
descendants,  and  present  representatives  of  that  august 
assemblage,  which  for  above  twelve  centuries  had  swayed 
the  empire  of  the  universe.  These  then  were  the  suc- 
cessors of  the  rustic  sages,  whom  Romulus  convened 
under  his  straw-built  shed  to  order  the  religious  rites  and 
civil  customs  of  his  young  kingdom  !  Successors  of 
the  bearded  sages  who  sat  immoveable  and  fearless  upon 
their  ivory  thrones,  awaiting  the  wild  onslaught  of  Bren- 
nus  and  his  Gaulish  savages,  serene  in  godlike  majesty, 
unwilling  to  survive  their  country  !  Successors  of  those 
stern  patriots,  who  met  without  the  walls,  to  receive  the 
embassage  of  the  subdued  and  captive  Regulus,  whi- 
lom their  honoured  consul ;  and  sent  him  back  to  die, 


128  THE    OPAL. 

that  glorious  exile,  confirmed  by  his  own  matchless  elo- 
quence foretelling  woes  unspeakable  to  his  loved  city. 

Si  non  periret  immiserabilia 
Captiva  pubes ! — 

Successors  of  those  undaunted  seniors,  who,  when  the 
breathless  herald  of  red  Canna  had  scarcely  panted 
forth  his  tidings  of  disaster  and  defeat,  as  yet  unparal- 
leled, when  Hannibal  was  all  but  thundering  at  their 
gates,  and  was  already  boasting  how  he  would  plant  the 
Punic  standards  in  the  forum,  and  pitch  his  camp  in  the 
Suburra,  marched  forth  in  all  their  majesty  to  meet  their 
vanquished  general,  that  general  whose  rash  daring  had 
lost  all,  and  driven  his  wiser  colleague  to  die  "  prodigal 
of  life"  upon  the  field  of  Carthaginian  glory  ! — to  meet — 
and  how  to  meet — the  rash  and  reckless  Varro  ? — with 
anger,  and  reproach,  and  penalties,  for  that  by  fighting 
wrongly  he  had  fared  foully,  and  brought  shame  upon 
Rome's  eagles  1  No  !  but  with  thanks — honours  and 
thanks  to  the  brave,  although  unsuccessful  champion, 
who,  in  the  evil  hour,  "  had  not  despaired  of  the  repub- 
lic !"  Successors  of  the  men  who  listened  daily  to  the 
vote,  and  applauded  the  opinion  of  that  elder  Cato,  who 
at  each  meeting  of  their  body,  while  yet  the  Punic  arms 
laid  waste  the  fields  of  Italy,  decreed  no  peace  with 
Carthage — but  absolute  annihilation  !  Successors  of 
those  legislators,  whose  souls  had  thrilled  to  the  divine 
eloquence  of  Cicero,  when  in  full  conclave  he  poured 
forth  the  vials  of  his  thunderous  declamation  upon  the 
cowering  head  of  the  fell  Catiline  !  of  those  who  stir- 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    CHRISTIANITY.          129 

red  not  from  their  seats  to  avert  the  doom  of  the  first 
greatest  Caesar,  when  the  homethrust  of  Brutus  smote 
him  down  in  his  hour  of  pride,  not  that  he  loved  Caesar 
less,  but  that  he  loved  Rome  more  !  of  those,  who  left 
the  flower  of  their  high  order,  praetorians,  consulars, 
greater  than  princes,  weltering  on  the  dire  Pharsalia, 
when  liberty  and  Brutus  died  together  !  of  those,  who 
once  again  in  later  days,  when  even  the  name  of  free- 
dom had  been  almost  forgotten,  made  one  last  effort  for 
their  sacred  country,  and  on  the  death  of  a  licentious 
emperor,  convoked  their  members  to  Jove  in  the  capitol, 
and  gave  the  watchword  Liberty,  to  the  few  fainting 
cohorts  who  shuddered  at  the  name  which  they  lacked 
manhood  to  defend  ! 

Such  was  the  body -which  was  now  convened  in  the 
vast  Julian  senate-house,  to  judge  between  the  rival  doc- 
trines,  to  pass  that  sentence,  which  should  stamp  for  ages 
the  history  of  a  world's  religion.  Nor  changed  although 
it  was,  and  fallen  from  those  old  times  of  grand  sim- 
plicity, when  Cincinnatus  left  his  plough  in  the  unfinished 
furrow  to  take  upon  himself  the  dictatorial  wreath,  and 
his  work  done,  his  country  saved,  resigned  that  supreme 
sway  and  turned  back  to  his  little  fields  in  time  to  sow 
and  harrow  that  same  glebe  which  he  had  turned  up  ere 
his  brief  authority ! — Nor,  changed  although  it  was,  did 
it  lack  many  a  noble  name,  many  a  name  that  made  the 
heart  bound  mindful  of  past  glory,  as  the  lip  spoke  it — 
and  many  a  virtuous  heart  and  all-capacious  intellect, 
many  a  tongue  instinct  with  eloquence,  that  could  arouse 
its  hearers  like  a  trumpet,  many  a  soul  of  fire,  many  a 
spirit  worthy  of  old  Rome. 


130  THE    OPAL. 

They  met  in  that  vast  hall,  whose  very  atmosphere 
was  memory  and  glory — they  met,  a  glorious  concourse  ! 
From  the  gray  hair  and  flowing  beard  of  wrinkled  age, 
down  to  the  scarcely  bearded  chin  and  crisped  lovelocks 
of  boy  patricians,  each  lustre  of  man's  life  had  there  its 
representative — the  bowed  and  frail  octogenarian,  whose 
clear  dark  eye  alone  bespoke  the  intellect  untamed  by 
years;  the  hoary  counsellor,  still  ripe  in  wisdom  and 
erect  in  frame,  though  the  joints  might  have  stiffened,  and 
the  corporeal  strength  departed  ;  the  veteran  of  a  hun- 
dred fields,  with  brow  of  bronze  and  frame  harder  than 
steel,  with  grizzled  hair,  and  eye  cold,  unimpulsive,  yet 
full  of  energy  and  calm  collected  firmness  ;  the  world- 
defying  warrior  in  the  full  flush  of  manhood,  with  the 
old  Roman  mould  of  features,  aquiline,  keen,  and 
haughty,  and  the  outflashing  fiery  eye,  quick  as  the 
eagle's  ;  the  wild  imaginative  youth,  the  idol  of  the  sex, 
full  of  high  dreams  and  fitful  fancies,  hot  hopes  and 
glowing  aspirations,  soon  to  be  quenched  in  the  cold 
world.  All  these  were  gathered  there,  the  senators  of 
Rome,  in  their  high  robes  of  state,  not  now,  as  in  the 
olden  time,  all  clothed  alike  and  simply  in  tunics  of 
white  woollen,  with  the  broad  purple  facings  on  the 
breast,  which  alone  indicated  their  proud  dignity,  and 
snow-white  togas  edged  with  a  purple  hem  !  For  these 
luxurious  and  effeminate  days,  such  plain  and  moderate 
attire  would  have  been  held  unseemly,  mean,  and  dis- 
graceful to  a  man  of  birth  and  station.  Tunics  all  wore, 
flashing  with  every  rich  and  gorgeous  hue  that  can  be 
fancied,  among  which  shone  most  frequent  and  resplen- 
dent the  brilliant  Tyrian  scarlet.  Embroidery  and  tissues 


THE    TRIUMPH    OP    CHRISTIANITY.  131 

wrought  of  gold  and  silver,  and  garbs  of  silk  sold  but  a 
few  years  previously,  and  sold  as  it  was  thought  cheaply 
at  their  weight  in  gold,  were  common  in  that  glittering 
assemblage.  And  for  the  old  white  woollen  toga,  robes 
were  indeed  worn  ample  and  studied  in  their  graceful 
flow,  and  giving  dignity  to  those  who  wore  them  ;  but 
these  too,  like  the  tunics,  were  of  all  tints,  all  fabrics, 
and  all  fashions.  Some  of  Calabrian  wool  dyed  purple, 
with  a  rich  warp  of  golden  threads  varying  the  darker 
texture ;  some  of  gay  Oriental  silks,  blended  with  hues 
delicate  as  the  last  sunset  reflection  on  the  fleecy  clouds; 
and  some  of  that  Egyptian  byssus,  or  flaxen  gauze,  so 
thin  and  precious  that  it  was  oftentimes  called  woven  air, 
by  the  imaginative  writers  of  that  poetic  clime. 

And  now  the  Emperor,  the  mighty  Theodosius,  as- 
sumed in  person  the  curule  chair  of  ivory  raised  on  its 
dais,  his  lictors  with  their  fasces  clustered  behind  him, 
and  his  praetorian  guards  in  all  the  glitter  of  their  mag- 
nificent accoutrements.  Stately  and  grand  in  person  as 
he  was  famous  for  his  deeds  in  arms,  having  twice  saved 
the  empire — once  from  the  savage  Goths  by  Adrianople 
and  the  banks  of  Danube,  and  once  again  from  the 
fierce  Maximus,  the  murderer  of  his  benefactor  Gratian 
—he  occupied  the  highest  place,  here  in  the  western 
capital,  which  he  had  visited  in  order  to  assist  his  impe- 
rial friend  and  pupil  in  putting  an  end  to  the  abuses  so 
prevalent  in  Rome,  which  the  weak  tempers  of  the  yield- 
ing Valentinian  gave  him  no  power  to  suppress. 

A  wreath  of  golden  bays,  the  only  crown  which  had 
ever  decked  the  brows  of  Rome's  imperial  line — a  decora- 


132  THE    OPAL. 

tion  borrowed  from  the  green  garland,  with  which  the  first 
who  sat  upon  that  throne  of  thorns  was  wont  to  cover 
his  bald  temples — glittered  among  the  dark  locks  of  the 
stern  and  haughty  soldier,  whose  keen  high  features  and 
bright  eagle  aspect  might  have  beseemed  the  founder  of 
the  empire.  He  wore  a  scarlet  sagum,  the  military 
dress,  or  surcoat  of  the  day,  elaborately  wrought  with 
golden  borders,  from  under  which  flashed  now  and  then, 
when  its  folds  were  displaced  by  any  sudden  movement, 
his  complete  panoply  of  blue  Iberian  steel.  His  knees 
and  legs  were  bare,  only  a  pair  of  gilt  and  jewelled 
sandals  guarding  his  naked  feet.  But  over  all  flowed 
the  broad  draperies  of  the  toga  palmata — the  old  triumphal 
robe  of  dignity,  worn  only  by  the  victor  up  from  the 
field  of  Mars  along  the  sacred  road  even  to  the  Capitol, 
during  that  pomp  sublime,  which  was  deemed  by  the 
simple  fathers  of  the  commonwealth  so  rare  and  godlike 
a  distinction,  that  it  was  necessary  for  a  slave  to  stand 
behind  the  victor  in  his  ivory  car,  whispering  in  his  ear 
the  admonition,  "  Remember  that  thou  art  a  man,"  lest, 
charmed  too  much  by  his  extraordinary  elevation,  he 
should  forget  his  nature  and  so  believe  himself  a  god. 

This  gorgeous  dress  had  now  become  the  wonted  garb 
of  the  lords  of  both  the  empires,  and  it  indeed  was 
worthy  of  their  state.  Wrought  with  the  finest  wool, 
dyed  with  the  richest  tints  of  the  Tyrian  crimson,  and 
all  inwoven  with  palm  branches,  from  which  it  had  its 
name,  in  threads  of  solid  gold,  it  would  have  far  outvied 
the  bravest  shows  of  modern  royalty. 

But  it  was  not  the  glittering  armour,  nor  the  crimson 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    CHRISTIANITY.  133 

robe  ! — not  the  clear  golden  bays,  nor  the  tall  sceptre, 
surmounted  not  now  by  the  rapacious  eagle  of  the  de- 
stroying Mars,  but  by  the  cross  and  monogram  of  the 
redeeming  Saviour.  It  was  the  man  himself — the  man 
and  soldier,  higher  even  then  in  the  people's  estimation 
than  the  mere  emperor — the  man  and  soldier  shining 
out  amid  the  degenerate  line  of  base  and  vicious  and 
effeminate  princes,  as  worthy  to  be  numbered  with  the 
heroes  of  old  Rome,  with  the  Horatii  and  the  nobles  of 
the  Fabian  house,  the  Scipios  and  the  Marcelli — the  iron 
champions  of  the  Republic,  while  yet  her  march  was 
onward. 

He  rose,  and  leaning  with  his  left  hand  lightly  upon 
the  Christian  sceptre,  announced  to  the  assembled  sena- 
tors in  clear  calm  tones,  that  they  were  convened  to 
hear  the  legate  Symmachus  and  good  Ambrosius  of 
Milan  contend  concerning  the  two  creeds  of  Jupiter  and 
Jesus — the  old  faith  and  the  new — and  to  judge  whether 
of  the  two  was  best  for  Rome  to  follow.  "  Listen  then, 
fixedly,  that  ye  may  decide  wisely  !" — he  concluded  his 
brief  harangue — "  judge  slowly,  but  decree  finally — 
knowing  that  cautious  judgment  begets  wise  decision — 
and  not  forgetting  that,  this  day,  ye  decide  not  the  cause 
of  mortal  men,  but  of  immortal  gods  ! — that  ye  judge, 
this  day,  not  for  yourselves  only,  but  for  Rome,  for  all 
Italy,  for  all  the  Roman  Empire,  which  is  the  universal 
world  ! — not  for  your  own  lives  only,  nor  for  your  sons', 
nor  your  sons'  sons' — but  for  innumerable  ages,  for  all 
time.  Remember  this,  O  Conscript  Fathers,  and  be 
your  great  decision  worthy  all  nations  and  all  ages !" 
And  with  this  grand  though  simple  exhortation  he 
12 


134  THE    OPAL. 

resumed  his  seat,  and  signed  to  Symmachus,  the  deputy 
of  Rome's  pagan  priesthood,  of  the  majority  of  Rome's 
pagan  senate,  most  eloquent — so  said  the  voice  of  fame 
— of  all  Rome's  splendid  orators — to  commence  his 
pleadings,  the  exordium  of  that  day's  never  to  be  for- 
gotten cause. 

He  rose,  a  noble-looking  man,  already  past  the  prime 
of  manhood,  but  not  yet  tending  in  the  least  toward 
decrepitude  or  weakness.  Far  from  it :  his  port  was 
erect  and  firm  as  a  warrior's  on  the  deadly  trench, 
before  the  entering  foes  rush  on  to  storm  it.  He  stood 
for  a  moment  speechless,  with  his  eyes  turned  upward, 
as  if  in  mute  appeal  to  those  whose  cause  he  was  about 
to  undertake,  for  their  support  and  succour  ;  then  gazed 
around  him  for  a  space  as  if  impressed  so  much  by 
the  magnitude  of  his  subject  that  he  lacked  words  to 
clothe  his  thoughts.  Then  he  commenced  in  slow,  deep, 
regular,  melodious  accents,  that  wondrous  speech,  the 
fame  of  which,  together  with  itself,  has  come  down  to 
these  days,  and  which,  if  it  appear  to  us  scarce  worthy 
of  the  vast  encomiums  heaped  upon  it,  we  must  judge 
rather  from  its  effect  on  those  to  whom  it  was  delivered, 
than  by  our  calm  and  dispassionate  judgment.  We 
read  it  not  with  minds  full  of  the  memories  which 
crowded  to  the  souls  of  those  who  heard  it,  which  made 
them  fancy  that  the  very  air  of  the  senate-house  was 
burthened  by  the  presence  of  those  old  deities,  awaiting 
the  decision  that  should  secure  to  them  their  ancient 
seats,  or  banish  them  for  ever  from  the  walls  which 
they  had  rendered  free,  and  great,  and  glorious  ;  with 
which  they  claimed  coeval  life  and  power. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    CHRISTIANITY.  135 

Symmachus  pleaded  for  his  sacred  country. 

"  As  soon  as  this,  your  noble  senate,"  he  began,  all 
ears  attent  to  catch  the  slightest  syllable  that  fell  from 
his  lips,  "  most  noble,  and  for  ever  yours,"  addressing 
the  two  emperors,  "  perceived  that  all  abuses  had  been 
put  down  by  law,  and  saw  that  the  fame  of  recent  days 
had  been  rendered  clear  by  its  pious  princes,  following 
the  authority  of  an  age  so  upright,  it  gave  a  tongue  to 
the  grief  which  it  had  so  long  stifled  in  its  bosom,  and 
ordered  me  once  more  to  be  the  organ  of  its  sorrowful 
complaints.  Why,  why  was  it  so  long  denied  audience 
by  unjust  rulers?  why — but  that  it  was  destined  that 
your  justice,  our  imperial  lords,  should  not  be  wanting, 
O  Valentinian,  Theodosius,  and  Arcadius,  illustrious 
conquerors,  august  triumphal  arbiters  ! 

"  Discharging  then  a  double  duty,  I,  as  your  prefect, 
transact  this  public  duty ;  I,  as  their  deputy,  commend  to 
you  the  prayers  of  my  fellow-citizens.  Here  there  is 
no  opposition  of  men's  wills  to  yours ;  for  men  have 
long  since  ceased  to  fancy  that  they  can  gain  the  favour 
of  their  friends,  if  they  oppose  them.  To  be  loved,  to 
be  esteemed,  to  be  adored,  is  worth  far  more  than 
empire.  Who  then  shall  say  that  contests  such  as  this 
can  harm  the  commonwealth  1  Justly  the  Senate  pur- 
sues those  with  punishment,  who  have  preferred  their 
individual  power  to  the  glory  of  their  rulers.  Our 
grateful  toil,  however,  keeps  guard  for  the  protection  of 
your  clemency.  For  whom  doth  it  concern  so  much  as 
ye,  who  are  the  glory  of  the  time,  that  we  defend  the 
institutions  of  our  ancestors,  the  rights  of  our  country, 
and  its  sacred  auspices  1 — which  glory  is  so  much  the 


136  THE    OPAL. 

brighter,  as  ye  shall  understand  more  clearly  that 
nothing  can  be  lawful  contrary  to  the  custom  of  our 
parents.  We  then  demand  again  that  old  religion, 
which  was  so  long  the  safeguard  of  the  commonwealth. 
Emperors,  without  doubt,  there  have  been  of  either 
sect,  of  each  opinion.  A  late  prince  restored  the  holy 
ceremonies  of  those  our  fathers.  One  yet  more  recent 
set  them  not  aside.  If  then  the  religious  veneration  of 
the  former  constitute  no  example,  suffer  at  least  the  per- 
mission of  the  latter  to  effect  so  much. 

"  For  who  is  such  a  friend  to  the  Barbarian,  that  he 
would  not  restore  the  altar  due  to  Victory  ?  We  have 
become  of  late  so  cautious,  that  we  avoid  the  celebration 
of  such  things  ;  let  then  that  honour  be  at  least  restored 
to  the  name  which  is  denied  to  the  divinity  !  Already 
your  eternity  of  glory  owes  much  to  Victory,  hereafter 
it  shall  owe  yet  more !  Let  men  revolt  from  their 
allegiance  to  that  power,  which  never  has  availed  them 
any  thing,  but  shun,  oh  !  shun,  great  emperors,  to  desert 
that  being  that  has  so  patronized  and  planned  your 
triumphs.  This  heavenly  power  of  Victory  is  sought 
and  supplicated ;  let  no  one  therefore  deny  worship  to 
that  which  he  deems  worthy  prayer.  If  then  the 
banishment  of  this  great  goddess  is  not  entirely  just 
and  fitting,  at  least,  at  least  they  should  have  spared  her 
decorations  in  the  Senate. 

"  Grant  to  us,  then,  we  do  beseech,  that  what  we 
have  received  as  children  from  our  parents,  that  we  as 
fathers  may  hand  down  to  posterity.  Vast  is  the  love 
of  custom.  It  was  by  right  that  the  act  of  Constan- 
tinus,  now  a  god,  was  not  of  long  existence.  All  things 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    CHRISTIANITY.  137 

should  be  avoided  as  examples,  which  recently  esta- 
blished have  been  as  recently  abolished.  We  now  take 
council  to  establish  the  eternity  of  your  names,  and 
your  glory,  lest  future  ages  may  find  something  to 
correct  in  these  likewise. 

"  Where  shall  we  swear  hereafter  to  keep  your  laws, 
and  to  obey  your  words  ?  by  what  religious  oaths  shall 
the  mind  be  terrified,  so  that  it  may  not  belie  its  own 
true  witness  ?  All  places  are  indeed  full  of  God,  nor 
is  there  any  room  of  safety  for  the  perfidious ;  but 
nothing  has  so  great  value  to  deter  from  crime  as  the 
actual  presence  of  religion.  That  altar  holds  fast  the 
unanimity  of  all — that  altar  binds  the  singular  faith  of 
each ;  nor  is  there  any  thing  which  so  securely  ratifies 
your  sovereign  sway,  as  this  sworn  rule  which  regulates 
the  whole  course  of  affairs.  Shall  an  asylum  then  be 
opened  for  profane  perjuries,  and  shall  my  noble  princes 
esteem  this  worthy  of  their  approbation,  who  are  de- 
fended by  a  public  oath  ?  But  we  are  told  that  the 
divine  Constantinus  did  this  same  thing.  Rather,  oh  ! 
rather  let  us  emulate  the  other  actions  of  this  prince, 
who  never  had  so  erred,  if  any  other  had  in  the  like 
sort  erred  before  him.  For  the  fault  of  a  predecessor 
corrects  the  successor ;  and  oftentimes  improvement 
springs  from  the  disapprobation  of  foregone  example. 
It  was  decreed  by  fate,  that  he,  the  parent  of  your 
present  clemency,  could  not  escape  from  odium  for  so 
strange  an  innovation.  But  shall  we  find  so  much  as  a 
defender,  if  we  shall  imitate  what  we  know  to  have 
been  done,  and  when  done  disapproved?  Let  your 
eternal  majesty  rather  select  some  other  deeds  of  that 
12* 


138  THE    OPAL. 

same  prince,  which  it  may  bring  more  profitably  into 
use  !  He  stripped  off  nothing  from  the  privileges  of  the 
vestals ;  he  filled  the  vacant  priesthoods  up  with  nobles  ! 
He  denied  not  the  expenditures  for  the  old  Roman  ritual, 
and  following  the  joyous  Senate  through  all  the  streets 
of  the  eternal  city,  beheld  with  placid  countenance  the 
shrines  ;  read  on  the  summits  of  the  temples  the  inscribed 
titles  of  the  gods  ;  inquired  the  origin  of  those  holy 
places,  admired  the  piety  of  their  old  founders ! — and 
when  he  journeyed  into  other  regions,  he  preserved  these 
at  least  in  their  accustomed  majesty. 

"  For  every  nation  has  its  own  customs,  and  every 
country  its  own  rites.  The  divine  intellect  of  the 
universe  to  various  lands  and  cities  has  assigned  various 
guardians,  various  modes  of  worship.  As  souls  are 
allotted  to  new-born  bodies,  so  fated  genii  are  assigned 
to  new-born  cities  !  Expediency  moreover  speaks  aloud, 
which  not  the  least  asserts  to  men  the  existence  of  the 
gods.  For  when  all  reason  is  obscured,  whence  shall 
we  better  seek  our  knowledge  of  divinities  than  from 
memory,  and  the  annals  of  a  prosperous  state  ?  Now 
then,  if  the  long  course  of  time  can  give  authority  to 
religion,  we  must  needs  put  faith  in  so  many  centuries — 
we  must  needs  follow  the  example  of  our  fathers,  who 
have  so  happily  followed  theirs,  and  with  so  glorious 
fortune. 

"  I  think — I  think,  O  princes !  that  Rome  herself 
stands  near  to  us,  the  mighty  genius  of  our  grand 
Rome,  and  thus  implores  you  with  words — words  that 
command  your  reverence — 'Excellent  princes,  fathers 
of  your  country,  respect  the  length  of  years  to  which 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    CHRISTIANITY.  139 

my  pious  rites  have  given  me  to  attain — oh  !  let  me  use 
unto  the  end  my  old  ancestral  ceremonies.  Never! 
never  shall  you  repent  of  it.  Let  me  live  in  mine  own 
customs — let  me,  for  I  am  free  !  .This  faith  it  was,  this 
worship,  that  reduced  a  world  to  obedience  to  my  laws  1 
These  sacred  rites  drove  Hannibal  defeated  from  the 
walls — hurled  the  Gauls  headlong  from  the  Capitol  ! — 
and  have  I  been  preserved  for  this,  that  in  my  old  age 
I  should  be  disgraced  and  humbled?  For  slow  and 
shameful  is  the  compeUed  improvement  of  the  aged!" 
Let  us  then  ask  peace  from  the  gods  of  our  country — 
pardon  from  the  gods  of  the  native  soil.  Is  it  just  that, 
whatever  all  men  worship,  that  we  should  deem  the 
same  !  We  all  look  up  to  the  same  stars  ;  the  heaven  is 
common  which  overhangs  us ;  the  world  which  contains 
us  is  the  same  !  What  can  it  matter  then  by  what  path 
every  man  arrives  at  what  he  deems  the  truth  ?  It  is 
not  possible  to  reach  by  one  road  to  so  wonderful  a 
secret.  But  this  dispute  is  suited  only  to  men  of  leisure. 
We  have  need  now  of  prayers  to  your  clemency,  O 
princes,  not  contests  for  the  right.  Consult  then,  mighty 
lords,  your  own  munificence,  your  own  good  wisdom, 
your  own  justice,  your  own  self-preservation  ;  for  yours 
is  the  empire  which  we  would  preserve  in  its  pristine 
purity — yours  is  the  safety  of  the  laws,  the  strength  of 
civil  privileges,  the  sanctity  of  the  most  solemn  gods, 
who  have  so  often  interposed  to  save  this  grand  and 
fair  republic,  both  in  its  early  youth,  and  in  its  splendid 
womanhood,  and  who  will  still,  so  ye  extend  to  them  your 
high  protection,  continue  now  in  its  vast  old  age  to 
shelter  it  from  outward  evil,  and  from  internal  wrong, 


140  THE    OPAL. 

and  keep  it  green  and  fresh,  mightier,  and  more  glorious, 
and  more  grand,  for  ever  and  for  ever." 

He  ceased,  and  there  was  a  hush  that  fell  at  once 
most  solemn  and  impressive  over  the  mighty  concourse. 
The  mind  of  the  degenerate  Romans  was  awakened, 
and  for  a  little  space  they  remembered  that  they  were 
Romans.  Then  came  a  quick  and  rustling  sound,  as 
if  each  one  of  all  that  great  assemblage  had  at  once 
drawn  a  deep  breath  after  the  breathless  expectation  of 
a  long  excitement.  But  then  uprose  Ambrosius,  the  old 
noble  prelate,  to  plead  the  cause  of  the  Redeemer.  His 
tall  thin  figure,  bent  and  emaciated  by  the  joint  effect  of 
years  and  the  austerities  of  church  discipline,  his  fine 
expressive  features  wrinkled,  and  pale,  and  careworn, 
his  beard  and  hair  white  as  the  snows  upon  Soracte, 
presented  a  fine  contrast  to  the  soldierly  and  upright 
port  of  Symmachus ;  so  did  the  thin  and  shrill  accents 
of  the  aged  prelate  contrast  the  deep  tones  of  the  vigor- 
ous  pagan  ;  so  did  his  simple  and  undecorated  language 
contrast  the  rounded  and  elaborate  periods  of  the 
eloquent  impassioned  advocate. 

"  Princes,"  he  said,  "  and  senators  !  I  do  not  seek, 
like  Symmachus  to  win  your  minds  by  a  display  of 
words,  nor  to  reach  your  understandings  through  your 
fancies.  I  will  not  therefore  excite  your  patriotism  so 
to  work  on  your  prejudices ;  nor  stir  you  to  the  love  of 
glory,  so  that  thereby  I  may  move  you  to  the  love  of 
God.  He  in  his  eloquent  and  superb  speech  has  told 
you  that,  because  Rome  grew  mighty  under  the  sway 
of  the  old  religion,  therefore  that  religion  must  needs 
be  true  ;  and  that  because  coeval,  it  must  be  the  cause 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    CHRISTIANITY.  141 

therefore  of  her  glories.  To  this,  O  princes,  I  reply,  that 
I  too  am  a  Roman — that  I  can  prize  the  glories,  can  thrill 
at  the  victories,  can  reverence  the  antiquities  of  Rome  as 
much  as  Symmachus  or  any  other.  But  it  is  not  so  ;  no! 
the  hands  and  hearts  of  Romans  built  up  the  fame,  even 
as  they  built  up  the  walls,  of  the  great  capital.  The 
sword  of  good  Camillus  beat  Brennus  back  from  the 
half-conquered  citadel,  which  Jupiter  had  launched  no 
thunders  to  defend.  The  arms,  never  subdued  though 
often  beaten,  of  Scipios  and  Neros,  of  Fabii  and  Pauli, 
prodigal  of  blood  in  their  country's  cause,  drove  Hannibal 
despairing  from  the  walls. 

"  Where  were  the  gods  of  Rome,  these  guardian 
gods — what  voice  foreboding  ill  warned  them  of  coming 
evil,  when  the  three  hundred  Fabii  went  forth  to  die  on 
the  sad  field  of  Cremera  1  When  all  the  pride  and 
flower  of  Rome  cumbered  sad  Cannse  1  Who  ever  hath 
seen  Victory — this  winged  and  crowned  Victory,  whose 
exile  from  these  halls  he  so  indignantly  bewails  ?  who, 
I  say,  ever  saw  this  bold  and  naked-bosomed  harlot 
striding  the  blast  of  battle,  pointing  the  blows  of  heroes, 
swaying  the  fate  of  empires  ?  Do  ye  ask,  then,  do  ye 
ask  now  who  gives  the  splendid  boon  ?  I  answer  you, 
the  heart,  the  hand,  the  will  of  every  soldier  !  Under 
the  arbitry  of  Him,  the  one  and  only  God,  even  the  Lord 
of  Hosts  !  Nay  more — where  are  the  towns,  the  nations, 
the  great  emperors,  the  valiant  heroes,  the  proud  armies, 
that  have  fallen  to  swell  the  might  of  Rome?  They  had 
their  gods — their  old  gods,  and  their  old  religions. 
Their  orators  recounted  too  their  glories,  and  gave 
praise  for  those  glories  to  those  old  gods  and  to  that 


142  THE   OPAL. 

old  religion.  Mars  was  not  worshipped  first  on  the 
Quirinal,  nor  Jupiter  upon  the  proud  Capitoline  !  Juno 
loved  Argos,  Carthage  !  She  beat  down  Troy  before  the 
Argive  spear,  and  calmed  the  waves  beneath  the  fleets 
of  the  Phoenician  city  !  But  she  beat  not  the  Roman, 
when  the  short  sword  and  pilum  played  havoc  with  the 
phalanx ;  when  the  destroying  ploughshare  erased  the 
very  vestiges  of  Dido's  palace !  Minerva  sat  on  the 
world-famed  Acropolis  ;  her  the  Athenians  sung  with 
hymns  of  praisefiil  adoration,  when  she  smiled  upon 
Marathon  and  Salamis,  yea !  smiled  upon  the  flight  of 
Xerxes.  Where  were  her  segis  and  her  lance  when 
her  long  walls  went  down  before  Lysander  1  Where, 
when  the  Roman  Praetor  gave  forth  his  edicts  from  the 
high  seat  of  the  Archons  ?  Where  were  the  gods  who 
dwelt  in  Aero-Corinth,  when  all  her  costly  treasures 
were  molten  into  bronze,  and  Mummius  shouted  among 
her  shrines  in  barbarous  triumph  ?  Where  were  the 
Doric  gods,  when  Syracuse  was  taken,  heavy  with  wine 
and  slumber,  before  the  morning  twilight  ?  These, 
Romans,  are  the  gods  you  worship — they  worshipped 
them  of  old,  and  thanked  them  for  their  own  glories, 
and  sat  secure  and  confident  in  their  protection  !  Could 
they  not  save  these  then? — these  mighty  gods! — these 
great  old  gods  ! — could  they  not  save  the  nations  which 
adored  them — or  did  they  lack  the  will,  and  not  the 
power  to  save  ?  Romans,  if  they  could  not  save  Car- 
thage or  Corinth,  Athens  or  Syracuse,  or,  mightier  yet, 
Troy,  Nineveh,  and  Babylon,  how  shall  they  then  be 
able  to  save  Rome  ?  Or  if  they  betrayed  these,  how 
shall  you  sit  secure  and  confident,  that  they  will  not 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    CHRISTIANITY.  143 

betray  you  likewise  ?  Put  not  your  trust  in  images  of 
wax  and  clay — build  not  your  temples  on  the  sand,  but 
rather  on  the  Rock  of  Ages. 

"  Tell  me,  who  is  this  Jupiter,  who,  as  you  vainly  fancy 
thunders  above  the  Capitol  ? — begot  in  incest,  a  rebel, 
and  a  parricide,  a  murderer,  an  adulterer  and  a  tyrant — 
a  God.  Tell  me,  I  pray,  wherein  the  Lord  of  Heaven 
differs  from  his  dark  brother,  the  Lord  of  Tartarus  except 
in  deeper  dye.  Who  is  this  Venus,  whom  your  virgin 
daughters  worship? — a  harlot,  a  false  wife,  a  mere  wan- 
ton !  But  why  speak  of  Jupiter  alone,  or  Venus  1  Show 
me  one  god,  of  all  with  whom  the  legends  of  the  lying 
Greek  have  filled  Olympus,  one  god  or  goddess  free 
from  the  taint  of  infamous  pollution.  The  very  thief  has 
his  patron  deity,  and  calls  on  Mercury  the  while  he  cuts 
a  pocket.  The  Roman  matron  stealing  from  out  the 
chamber  of  her  drugged  and  lethargic  spouse  to  seek 
the  wanton  meeting,  lisps  forth  in  mincing  phrase  her 
prayer  to  Venus  for  protection.  The  murderer  stained 
with  his  victim's  blood,  the  drunkard  reeling  in  his 
cups,  the  very  sorcerer  plying  his  fiendish  trade,  can 
palliate  their  guilt  and  point  their  patrons  in  Mars,  or 
Bacchus,  or  Persephone.  Symmachus  tells  you  that  the 
prince  Constantine,  whom  he  profanely  styles  a  god,  did 
wrongly,  when  he  removed  winged  Victory  from  this 
august  assemblage.  He  prays  you,  noble  princes,  to 
replace  the  fluttering  wanton  upon  the  pedestal  whence 
he  deposed  her.  But  tell  me,  Romans,  did  Victory  desert 
Constantine,  or  did  He.  who  showed  to  him  in  the  heavens 
his  eternal  symbol,  who  told  him  that  '  in  this  sign  he 
should  conquer,'  cover  his  head  in  battle,  and  crown  his 


144  THE    OPAL. 

days  with  triumph  ?  Symmachus  tells  us  that  his  sue- 
cessor,  wiser  than  that  good  Constantino,  replaced  this 
glorious  emblem,  resumed  the  ancient  faith,  set  up  the 
thyrsus  and  the  phallum,  the  foul  signs  of  Bacchus  or 
Priapus,  above  the  cross  of  Christ.  Does  he  tell  you 
that  the  old  gods  gave  victory  to  Julian  ?  Methought  he 
fell  the  vanquished  though  brave  leader  of  a  defeated 
army !  Believe  me,  Romans,  there  is  no  safety  in  these 
stocks  and  stones — these  fiends  and  demons.  Listen  to 
what  Paul  said  at  Athens — listen,  and  then  judge  whether 
Jupiter  is  God,  whom  ye  in  your  superstition  worship, 
or  the  One  Everlasting,  Uncreate,  Invisible,  Omnipotent ! 
Your  own  old  legends  tell  you  that  Jupiter  was  born, 
that  nymphs  fed  his  infant  lips;  that  frantic  priests 
drowned  by  loud  music  the  discord  of  his  nursing  cla- 
mours. They  show  his  tomb  in  Crete.  A  precious  God 
indeed  to  worship,  a  God,  who  was  born,  and  perished  ! 
But  He  whose  name  is  I  AM,  who  is  from  everlasting 
unto  everlasting — who  made  all  things  himself,  but  was 
not  made  of  any  one,  nor  born,  nor  begotten,  but  self- 
existent  and  eternal ! — he  is  a  God  indeed ! — Him  I  declare 
unto  you  ! 

"  '  God  that  made  the  world,  and  all  things  therein, 
seeing  that  he  is  the  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth,  dwelleth 
not  in  temples  made  with  hands  ;  neither  is  worshipped 
with  hands  as  though  he  needed  any  thing ;  seeing  he 
giveth  to  all,  life,  and  breath,  and  all  things  ;  and  hath 
made  of  one  blood  all  nations  of  men,  for  to  dwell  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  and  hath  determined  the  times 
before  appointed,  and  the  bounds  of  their  habitation  ; 
that  they  should  seek  the  Lord  if  haply  they  may  feel 


THE    TRIUMPH    OP    CHRISTIANITY.  145 

after  him,  and  find  him,  though  he  be  not  far  from  every 
one  of  us ;  for  in  him  we  live,  and  move,  and  have  our 
being ;'  as  certain  also  of  your  own  poets  have  said, 
'  for  we  are  also  his  offspring.' 

"  Here  then,  O  Romans,  is  a  God  worthy  a  mighty 
nation — able  to  save,  and  all-sufficient.  Him  seek,  if  ye 
may  find  him  !  Him,  putting  aside  these  idols  which  ye 
now  ignorantly  worship,  honour,  and  reverence,  and  bless, 
and  praise  his  name  for  ever,  and  pray  to  Him  who  is 
indeed,  as  he  hath  spoken,  '  a  very  present  help  in  time 
of  trouble.'  " 

The  weighty  speaker  ended — the  cause  was  pled — the 
victory  was  not  a  moment  doubtful.  Great  Theodosius 
rose,  and  put  the  question — "  Shall  Jupiter  be  God  of 
Rome,  or  Christ  the  Saviour  ?" 

That  was  the  most  momentous  vote  that  ever  passed 
a  legislative  body — that  vote  made  the  world  Christian 
— ay  !  the  world  to  its  utmost  ends,  its  secret  places 
then  unknown — its  new  hemisphere  !  Had  Britain,  that 
small  distant  province,  divided  from  the  whole  world  by 
the  stormy  sea,  continued  as  Rome's  subject  pagan,  how 
should  America  have  known  and  worshipped  her  Re- 
deemer ? 

That  vote  was  heard  by  earth,  and  registered  by 
Heaven — its  consequences  are  felt  daily  more  and  more  ; 
its  blessed  influence  is  borne  on  every  wind  that  sweeps 
the  ocean  to  the  remotest  isles — an  influence  that  never 
shall  be  stayed  nor  hindered,  till  the  whole  universe  has 
heard  the  joyous  tidings — till  the  whole  universe  shall 
clap  its  hands,  and  sing  hosannahs  to  its  God  and 
Saviour. 

13 


THE  MILL. 


BY  MARY  LOCKHART  LAWSON. 


FAR  from  my  own  dear  land  I  roam, 
A  wanderer  o'er  the  world's  wide  way, 

Yet  oft  in  dreams  I  see  my  home, 
Live  over  youth's  enchanting  day  ; 

And  climb  once  more  the  moss-grown  hill 

That  looks  upon  the  village  mill. 

Yes,  softly  beams  before  mine  eyes 
The  tranquil  beauty  of  that  spot, 

The  mountain  tops  that  kiss  the  skies, 
The  sparkling  brook,  the  shady  grot, 

The  busy  wheel,  whose  ceaseless  play 

Dashed  far  and  wide  the  silver  spray. 

Dim  memories  of  departed  years, 
Of  joy,  and  grief,  are  centred  there : 

I've  roved  its  paths  with  hopes  and  fears, 
In  anxious  thought,  and  voiceless  prayer, 

Until  that  rustic  mill  appeared 

A  silent  friend,  by  time  endeared. 


THE    MILL.  147 

You  ask  me  why  I  fondly  pine 

O'er  scenes  that  it  were  bliss  to  share, 

When  I  again  might  call  them  mine, 
And  breathe  in  peace  my  native  air  ? 

But  think  you  to  mine  altered  gaze 

'Twould  be  the  home  of  other  days 1 

Amid  the  careworn  paths  of  life, 

Too  long  a  time  my  steps  have  stayed, 

And  earth  and  earth's  debasing  strife, 
On  every  thought  have  cast  a  shade  ; 

And  weariness  would  cloud  my  brow, 

Were  I  amid  those  blessed  scenes  now. 

For  I  have  seen  bright  hopes  depart, 

And  sorrow  on  my  soul  has  pressed ; 
But  God  has  said,  the  faithful  heart 

Shall  find  eternal  peace  and  rest ; 
Oh  then,  when  freed  from  every  ill, 
I'll  calmly  slumber  near  the  mill. 


SCENES  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

YELLOW     JACK. 

BY  C.  F.  HOFFMAN. 

AMONG  the  passengers  aboard  of  Ben  Blower's  steamer, 
was  a  tall,  gentlemanlike  personage,  of  very  mild  address, 
and  adding  a  certain  air  of  retenu  to  manners  which 
were  characterized  by  a  sort  of  natural  frankness,  that 
could  only  flow  from  constitutional  bonhomie  of  dispo- 
sition. His  countenance  was  both  cheerful  and  intelli- 
gent ;  yet  there  too,  without  marring  the  candid  openness 
of  his  features,  there  would  come  ever  and  anon  a  fleeting 
expression  of  impassioned  thought,  or  tender  sentiment, 
which  was  singularly  interesting ;  and  which,  united  to 
the  rich  and  ever-varying  tones  of  the  most  eloquent 
voice  I  ever  listened  to — a  voice,  now  clear  and  ring- 
ing as  a  spring-brook  in  its  sportiveness,  now  harsh  and 
withering  in  its  tones  of  sarcasm,  now  again,  feeling  and 
pathetic  to  a  degree  that  was  positively  oppressive — made 
his  whole  character  an  exhaustless  theme  of  curiosity  to 
me.  I  know  not  how  long  the  charm  might  have  lasted ; 
but  every  conversation  and  interview  developed  some- 
thing new  in  him.  I  could  never  get  to  the  bottom,  of 
that  man's  character ;  there  seemed  more  in  him,  more 


SCENES    ON    THE    MISSISSIPPI.  149 

of  "  the  human,"  than  in  any  person  I  had  ever  been 
brought  in  such  close  contact  with  for  such  a  length  of 
time.  I  know  not  upon  what  plan  such  a  mind  as  his 
could  have  been  constituted  originally,  nor  by  what  pro- 
cess it  could  have  been  fashioned  afterward.  I  should 
judge  that  he  was  by  nature  strongly  impressible,  from 
the  vividness  with  which  every  thing  he  had  seen,  heard, 
read,  or  felt,  seemed  to  have  imprinted  itself  upon  his 
senses ;  yet,  his  individuality  was  so  thoroughly  pre- 
served, so  rigidly  prominent  sometimes  through  every 
emotion  that  he  expressed,  and  every  reminiscence  that 
he  had  treasured  up,  that  I  could  not  realize  how  his 
nature  had  ever  been  thus  acted  upon  by  external  circum- 
stances. 

I  had  frequently  exchanged  a  passing  salutation  with 
this  gentleman,  but  our  intimacy  dates  from  the  morning 
when  I  found  him  standing  by  my  side,  an  amused  lis- 
tener with  myself  to  the  story  of  Ben  Blower,  which  I 
have  before  related.* 

"  You  came  aboard,  I  believe,  at  one  of  the  landings  ?" 
said  he,  politely  accepting  the  cigar  which  I  offered  him. 

"  Yes,  I  have  not  been  so  low  as  New  Orleans  ;  nor 
did  I  dream  that  you  were  all  running  away  from  the 
cholera  there,  when  I  took  this  boat." 

"  The  cholera 's  nothing,  my  dear  sir ;  you  should 
have  taken  the  opportunity  of  seeing  our  beautiful  city 
before  the  fever  season  sets  in.  There  is  no  spot  in  the 
Union  so  interesting  as  New  Orleans.  No  city  which 

*  See  "  Wild  Scenes  of  the  Forest  and  Prairie,"  vol.  ii.  p.  142. 

13* 


150  THE    OPAL. 

has  had  so  much,  and  still  has  so  much  to  contend 
against  on  the  score  of  prejudice ;  yet  whose  unquench- 
able enterprise  and  unrivalled  situation,  entitles  her  to 
more  consideration." 

"  You  speak  with  the  partiality  of  a  resident,"  said  I, 
smiling. 

"  Yet  I  am  not.  I  did  once  reside  there,  some  fifteen 
or  twenty  years  ago ;  and  I  assure  you,  you  can  have 
no  idea  how  I  have  been  struck,  on  my  late  visit,  with 
the  flourishing  growth  of  the  city,  and  the  wonderful 
change  in  the  condition  of  its  society  since  those  days." 

"  It  must  have  been  as  she  was  just  after  the  last  war 
with  England,  that  you  remember  New  Orleans  ?" 

"  Yes,  about  that  time,  or  rather  later.  I  think  it  was 
in  the  spring  of  '18  or  '19,  that  I  first  went  down  the 
river.  Never  shall  I  forget  that  first  dismal  summer  in 
the  now  beautiful  metropolis  of  the  Southwest.  New 
Orleans,  at  the  time  I  arrived  in  it,  might  well  be  called 
the  head-quarters  of  vice  and  iniquity.  The  town  was 
filled  with  an  immense  number  of  adventurers  from  every 
country  in  Christendom,  and  the  rapidity  with  which 
fortunes  were  made,  with  the  deadly  perils  encountered 
by  those  who  came  hither  to  better  their  circumstances, 
gave  that  dissipated,  desperate  and  reckless  character 
to  the  motley  population,  which  made  New  Orleans  at 
that  time  really  the  place  of  bad  repute  in  which  some 
prejudiced  persons  still  hold  her.  I  arrived  there,  I 
remember,  on  Sunday ;  and  sick  of  the  varied  sounds  of 
gambling,  the  rattling  of  billiards,  dominos,  and  dice, 
which  seemed  to  form  the  Sabbath's  amusement  of  my 
hotel,  I  sallied  out  to  take  a  stroll  through  the  place,  so 


SCENES    ON    THE    MISSISSIPPI.  151 

soon  as  the  noonday  heat  was  over.  My  steps  first  led 
me  to  the  shore,  where  the  various  crews  of  the  keel- 
boats  and  broad-horns  from  the  upper  country  were 
alternately  carousing  and  fighting  with  Spaniards  and 
Frenchmen.  I  did  not  linger  long  among  this  riotous 
assemblage ;  but  upon  seeing  a  quadroon  fruit-seller 
borne  down  and  dirked  by  a  gang  of  fierce-looking 
Spaniards,  who  were  in  turn  beaten  and  dispersed  by  a 
rush  from  the  boatmen,  who  came  to  rescue  one  of  their 
number  who  had  backed  the  poor  quadroon,  I  thought  that 
I  had  better  leave  the  place  at  once,  if  I  would  realize 
the  favourite  boast  of  a  Kentuckian  at  that  time :  '  I've 
been  fifteen  minutes  on  the  levee,  and  not  licked  yet.' 
But  I  am  boring  you,  my  dear  sir  ?" 

"Far  from  it,  far  from  it,  I  assure  you,"  I  replied  ;  "  to 
me,  nothing  in  our  broad  country  is  more  interesting 
than  reminiscences  like  yours ;  the  changes  from  demi- 
barbarism  to  sumptuous  civilization  is  so  rapid  throughout 
this  western  region,  that  the  state  of  society  half  a  gene- 
ration back  has  all  the  interest,  when  compared  with 
that  now  existing,  of  the  feudal  memories  of  France  con- 
trasted with  her  present  social  condition." 

The  tea-bell  here  broke  off  our  conversation,  but 
before  passing  to  the  eating  saloon,  my  companion, 
politely  congratulating  himself  when  I  told  him  that  I 
was  to  be  his  fellow-passenger  for  the  rest  of  this  voyage, 
handed  me  his  card  in  exchange  for  mine.  His  real 
name  is  unimportant  to  the  reader,  and  in  subsequently 
placing  at  my  service  an  unfinished  MS.  autobiography, 
which  he  wished  me  to  edit,  he  chose  that  of  Washing- 
ton Vanderlyn  as  the  one  by  which  he  would  be  known 


152  THE    OPAL. 

to  the  public.  The  MS.  was  very  imperfect,  and,  after 
publishing  one  volume  of  it  in  the  American  Monthly 
Magazine  of  1836,  (while  editing  that  work  a  year  or 
two  afterwards,)  I  waited  long  and  vainly  in  the  hope  of 
hearing  farther  from  Mr.  Vanderlyn,  whose  address 
indeed  I  have  now  entirely  lost.  The  following  episode 
in  his  life  has  never  appeared  in  print  before;  and, 
though  many  of  its  allusions  must  be  lost  upon  the  reader 
as  well  as  upon  myself,  it  dovetails  not  unnaturally  into 
the  conversation  which  I  have  just  recorded. 

"  The  grave-yard  of  New  Orleans  was  at  that  day  the 
vilest  place  I  ever  saw.  Several  graves  were  always 
ready  dug,  and,  owing  to  the  swampy  character  of  the  soil, 
they  filled  with  water  instantly.  There  was  a  species  of 
tomb,  however,  above  ground,  built  of  brick ;  they  were 
three  stories  high,  and  resembled  a  cluster  of  ovens  in 
appearance,  each  coffin  filling  one  compartment.  The 
mouths  of  these  were  successively  plastered  up  as  the 
occupant  took  possession ;  but  the  cemetery  around  was 
strewed  in  every  part  with  bones  and  skulls ;  the  coffin- 
cover  of  one  man  often  served  another  for  a  tombstone, 
and  a  man  was  scarcely  allowed  to  get  fairly  settled  in 
his  watery  pit,  before  another  grave  was  dug,  perhaps 
directly  across  him,  and  his  remains,  partially  turned 
up  and  dispersed,  were  exposed  to  every  foot  that  might 
chance  to  tread  upon  them.  An  old  Spanish  negro  was 
always  at  work  here,  preparing  these  inviting  homesteads. 
In  his  own  language,  he  wondered  that '  sometimes  he 
got  the  start  of  the  dead  by  a  dozen  graves,  1>ut  more 
often  they  got  ahead  of  him,  by  double  the  number.' 
This  worthy  sexton,  though  he  has  been  engaged  for 


SCENES    ON   THE    MISSISSIPPI.  153 

seventeen  years  in  the  exercise  of  his  profession,  was  but 
a  bungler  yet.  There  is  certainly  no  '  snug  lying '  where 
he  makes  the  bed.  A  Roman  Catholic  funeral  entered 
this  dreary  domain  while  I  was  strolling  thither  one  morn- 
ing with  Brashleigh. 

"  The  procession  was  headed  by  several  priests,  dress- 
ed very  fantastically,  and  bearing  in  their  hands  cruci- 
fixes, tapers,  &c.  Upon  approaching  the  hole — for 
grave  it  could  not  be  called — they  commenced  shouting 
a  requiem  for  the  departed  soul,  and  then,  upon  reach- 
ing it,  they  murmured  a  brief  prayer,  and  immediately 
walked  away,  leaving  the  negro  grave-digger  to  finish 
'  the  job,'  for  such  this  abrupt  ceremonial  really  was. 
The  grave  was  filled  with  water,  in  which  the  coffin 
floated  when  let  down,  and  the  old  negro  jumped  upon 
the  lid  to  sink  it,  but  did  not  succeed.  Attempts  were 
then  made  by  other  negroes  to  sink  one  end  at  a  time, 
but  their  efforts  were  all  in  vain,  until  after  working  for 
some  ten  minutes,  one  of  them  broke  a  hole  in  the  end 
of  the  coffin  with  his  spade,  and  by  pressing  it  down 
until  the  water  filled  it,  finally  succeeded  in  sinking  it. 
The  grave-digger  continued  to  stand  upon  it,  and  with  a 
large  hoe  raked  in  the  mud,  bones,  skulls,  and  every 
other  remnant  of  mortality  which  he  had  dug  out.  I  had 
never  before  witnessed  so  shocking  and  brutal  a  specta- 
cle, even  in  the  brief  burials  I  have  witnessed  after  more 
than  one  bloody  battle-field ;  but  what  astonished  me 
more  was  the  want  of  feeling  evinced  by  the  female  rela- 
tions who  stood  by  until  all  was  over.  There  were  at 
that  time  more  than  thirty  large  and  small  graves  ready 


154  THE    OPAL. 

dug  and  waiting  for  their  victims — alas,  how  soon  to  be 
yielded  to  them! 

"  Within  a  brief  six  weeks  of  this  time  the  yellow 
fever  had  set  in  as  an  epidemic  ;  several  hundred  strangers 
had  been  swept  away  by  it ;  and  at  last,  when  I  followed 
one  acquaintance  after  another  to  his  last  miserable 
home,  I  only  likened  the  appearance  of  this  cemetery 
to  a  field  that  has  been  freshly  ploughed.  The  recollection 
of  those  dismal  days  is  too  harrowing  for  memory  to  dwell 
upon  them,  otherwise  than  by  simply  copying  here  the 
details  of  a  diary,  which  I  kept  for  one  who  I  thought 
would  feel  a  sad  pleasure  in  perusing  it,  when  the  hand 
that  wrote  it  might  be  cold  in  death  for  ever.  As  I 
have  not  the  heart  to  abridge  and  remodel  it  now,  I 
ought  perhaps  to  withhold  it  altogether,  but  this  history 
of  my  adventures  would  be  incomplete  without  some  of 
its  details ;  and  revolting  as  they  may  prove,  they  may 
still  have  a  wholesome  effect  upon  the  mind  of  some 
querulous  reader,  who  murmurs  at  the  transient  ills  of 
his  condition,  while  such  scenes  of  human  suffering  are 
enacting  among  others  of  his  kind. 

"  And  may  we  not  believe  that  one  end  which  these 
terrible  visitations  of  Providence  are  intended  to  serve, 
is  to  make  us  realize  by  contrast  the  good  which  is 
habitually  near  us  ?  even  as  the  complaining  oak  in  the 
Iroquois  apologue,  prized  not  the  gentle  dews  which  re- 
freshed its  foliage,  until  its  boughs  were  alternately 
reached  by  the  tempest  and  withered  by  the  drought ! 

"August  8th,  18 — .  There  is  now  no  doubt  that 
'  Yellow  Jack'  is  really  among  us  in  full  force.  Many 


SCENES    ON    THE    MISSISSIPPI.  155 

decided  cases  of  '  black  vomit,'  which  is  here  con- 
sidered the  only  decided  proof  of  his  presence,  are  ad- 
mitted to  have  occurred.  Several  of  my  acquaintances 
are  already  down,  and  poor  A.  has  been  ill  three  days 
and  a  half.  If  he  lives  through  the  next  twelve  hours 
there  is  a  chance  in  his  favour,  but  I  am  sorry  to  say 
there  is  scarcely  a  hope  of  that. 

"  Four  o'clock,  P.  M.  I  have  just  heard  that  Mr. , 

a  rich  merchant  of  Philadelphia,  with  whom  I  dine,d  the 
other  day,  is  very  desperate.  His  English  servant  died 
of  the  fever  this  morning.  Poor  A.  is  no  better.  His 
case  excites  much  interest,  as  he  is  said  to  have  a  mother 
and  sisters  at  the  north  dependent  upon  him.  But  the 
extreme  and  long-continued  heat  of  these  August  suns 
hardly  leaves  a  hope  in  his  favour. 

"  Eleven  o'clock,  P.  M. — A  slight  change  for  the 
better  in  A.'s  case.  My  Philadelphia  acquaintance  has 
the  'black  vomit,'  and  no  earthly  aid  can  now  save  him. 

"  Tuesday  morning. — Mr.  and  my  friend  A. 

are  both  no  more.  I  have  heard  of  no  death  since  the 
prevalence  of  the  fever  which  seems  to  have  caused 
more  general  and  sincere  regret  than  that  of  the  latter. 

o  o 

His  high  talent  had  already  given  him  an  enviable  repu- 
tation for  so  gay  a  man,  and  his  gaiety  and  goodness  of 
heart  won  the  praises  of  many  friends,  who,  while  they 
live,  will  lament  him.  He  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
leave  the  place.  He  said  that  he  had  determined  to  ac- 
climate himself,  or  to  learn  the  worst,  and  when  at  last 
he  was  attacked  by  this  fatal  fever,  he  still  continued  to 
display  that  firmness  of  character  and  resignation  to 
death  for  which  his  memory  is  now  so  much  admired. 


156  THE    OPAL. 

He  continued  to  attend  to  his  affairs,  in  some  degree, 
even  to  the  day  before  his  death  ;  and  I  find  by  a  receipt 
among  his  papers,  which  I  examined  and  sealed  up  an 
hour  since,  that  he  paid  a  tradesman's  bill  within  the 
twenty-four  hours  in  which  he  breathed  his  last.  The 
unfeeling  creditor  must  have  seized  some  moment  when 
I  had  left  his  bedside,  to  jostle  him  upon  the  brink  of 
the  grave.  He  was  ill  altogether  but  four  days.  On 
the  third,  he  told  me  that  to-morrow  he  would  be  stiff". 
I  had  still  hopes  of  him,  but  thought  it  right,  in  case  of 
the  worst,  to  ask  him  if  he  had  any  directions  to  leave 
about  his  affairs.  He  gave  a  general  reply,  and  requested 
me  to  leave  him  then  to  his  nurses,  and  call  in  the 
morning  for  more  particular  instructions.  I  did  so,  but 
the  disease  had  made  such  progress  in  the  interval,  that 
I  found  him  too  ill  to  talk  on  the  subject.  He  said 
simply  that  he  was  quite  reconciled  to  his  fate.  A  few 
moments  after  the  blood  issued  from  his  mouth  and 
nostrils,  and  prevented  his  adding  more.  He  then 
turned  himself  over,  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow,  and 
shortly  after  died  without  a  groan  or  a  struggle.  His 
death  was  the  least  shocking  that  I  have  yet  witnessed  ; 
his  countenance  did  not  turn  black  or  yellow,  as  is 
generally  the  case  when  this  hideous  disease  closes  in 
dissolution ;  and  his  departure  would  have  been  perfectly 
placid  if  it  were  not  for  the  screams  and  agonized 
lamentations  in  adjoining  chambers,  where  others,  shrink- 
ing from  their  fate,  disturbed  with  their  cries  the  last 
moments  of  my  more  manly  friend. 

"August  18th. — The  epidemic  seemed  to  have  abated 
three  days  ago,  but  the  warm  weather  of  the  last  two 


SCENES    ON   THE    MISSISSIPPI.  157 

two  days  has  imparted  new  violence  to  it,  and  the  mor- 
tality among  strangers  is  now  appalling.  Almost  every 
acquaintance  I  have,  except  Brashleigh,  is  named  in  the 
list  of  cases — either  dead  or  dying.  But  if  we  should 
be  favoured  by  a  hurricane  or  earthquake  Yellow  Jack 
may  yet  let  up  before  the  commencement  of  September, 
which  they  tell  me  is  generally  the  most  fatal  season. 
The  fever  was  on  the  anniversary  of  Tuesday  actually 
blown  out  of  town  by  a  tornado. 

"  I  only  hope  if  there  be  no  such  good  luck  for  us,  that 
my  stock  of  spirits  may  hold  out  some  six  weeks  longer. 
The  fate  of  poor  A.  has  dashed  but  not  damped  them. 
I  must  cease  from  thinking  of  his  loss.  This  is  no 
season  to  entertain  grief.  Is  there  aught  irreverent  in 
speaking  thus  of  the  pestilence  ?  Indeed,  indeed,  I  mean 
it  not  so  ! — No,  though  a  sort  of  physical  recklessness, 
so  to  speak,  has  come  over  me  amid  this  ceaseless  peril, 
yet  infelt,  at  my  heart,  the  holy  teachings  of  my  youth 
plead  like  remembered  music,  whose  strains  were  never 
more  soothing  than  now. 

"  Moreover,  I  am  determined  not  to  be  frightened  to 
death  in  any  event ;  and  after  all,  what  does  it  matter 
how,  where,  and  particularly  when,  a  man  situated  like 
me,  '  slips  his  wind  ?'  The  tearful  eye  of  neither  widow 
nor  orphan  will  ever  be  vainly  raised  towards  heaven  to 
see  if  husband  or  parent  be  there.  He  leaves  scarcely 
a  blank  in  the  creation,  and  small  as  that  may  be,  it  is 
soon  filled  by  some  other  object.  No,  Gertrude,  one — 
one  at  least  will  weep — in  one  fond  heart  the  void  I 
know  will  ne'er  again  be  filled  !  For  thee — for  thy  dear 
sake  let  me  still  battle  stoutheartedly  with  this  accursed 
14 


158  '  *       THE    OPAL» 

pestilence^  It  has  pleased  Heaven  to  spare  me  thus  far^ 
while  many  whose  health  was  as  robust,  whose  hopes 
were  fairer  than  mine — save  only  they  had  no  saint  like 
thee  to  plead  in  prayer  for  them — have  passed  away  for 
ever. 

"  August  19. — Gertrude's  miniature  !  God  bless  the 
bark  that  brought  it  to  me  !  and  to-day,  too  !  how  strange 
that  it  should  come  upon  the  very  anniversary  of  my 
first  whispered  hopes !  It  was  kindly  done  in  her  to 
send  me  that  which,  next  to  herself,  I  hold  most  pre- 
cious ;  and  yet,  oh  !  how  could  she  pen  this  letter,  still 
holding  me  to  my  pledge  of  honour  !  This  long,  long 
exile  cannot  be  right ;  is  she  not  my  love — my  own — the 
heaven-sworn  wife  of  my  bosom  ?  Is  it  not  weakness 
in  me  still  to  defer  my  rightful  claim  ?  so  fond,  so  faith- 
ful, yet  so  unrelenting,  so  uncompromising,  in  what  she 
deems  the  maintenance  of  a  principle.  How  incon- 
ceivable is  the  character  of  woman  !  how  apparently 
irreconcilable  the  blended  firmness  and  tenderness  of 
her  nature  !  Did  Gertrude  but  know  the  perils  which 
now  environ  me,  she  would  perforce  relent,  and  I  might 
make  my  own  conditions  as  to  leaving  this  living  sepul- 
chre. But  no  !  the  pride  of  honour  is  as  strong  in  my 
bosom  as  the  less  vainglory  of  triumphant  principle  in 
hers.  The  bright  years  of  my  youth  are  already  gone, 
and  this  ungenial  climate  is  sapping  the  vigour  of  my 
manhood.  But  in  the  now  blasted  state  of  my  fortunes 
I  will  make  no  further  appeal,  save  from  the  grave,  that 
may  be  even  at  this  moment  yawning  for  its  victim.  Yet, 
God  of  heaven  !  it  is  bitter  to  survey  charms  like  these — 
to  know  how  nearly,  in  all  their  freshness  and  beauty, 


SCENES    Olf   THE    MISSISSIPPI.  159 

they  migM  be  mine,  yet  dream  that  they  must  fade  before 
I  can  again  behold  their  living  reality. 

"  Time  hath  not  touched  one  beauty  of  her  face, 
And  Care  his  hand  hath  lain  so  gently  there, 
That  e'en  Affection's  scrutiny  can  trace 
No  lines  remaining  where  his  fingers  were. 

"  Time !  his  light  pinion  hath  but  brought  to  her, 
The  woman's  beauty  girlhood's  promise  gave, 
When  first  upon  this  night  the  whisperer 

Hope  made  of  me  that  beauty's  willing  slave ! 

"  Yet  years,  ay  !  ten  of  them — ten  long,  long  years, 

Ten  years  of  love,  that  can  not,  will  not,  die, 
Though  bowed  in  hopelessness  and  steeped  in  tears, 
In  heart-wrung  tears  of  mortal  agony  ! — 

"  Ten  years,  o'er  me — o'er  both  of  us— have  passed ; 

O'er  me,  with  each  bright  goal  in  life  unwon, 
O'er  her  with  shadows  only  round  her  cast 
From  wings  of  love  despairing  and  undone. 

"Yet  still  I  murmur  not ;  no !  did  I  dare, 

With  soul  all  heavenward  here  to  plead  in  prayer, 
'T  would  be  that  ever  thus  in  life  thy  share 
Of  earthly  ill,  my  loveliest,  I  might  bear. 

"  The  time  will  come,  I  know,  I  feel  it  must, 

When  love  no  more  will  make  its  vain  appeal — 
An  echo  from  thy  heart  when  mine  is  dust, 
My  best,  my  only  loved  at  last  will  steal ! 


160  THE    OPAL. 

"August  21,  1  o'clock. — Mr.  H.  died  and  was  buried 
yesterday.  Every  effort  had  been  made  by  the  kind  woman 
in  whose  house  he  lodged,  and  by  his  physician,  to  save 
him,  but  in  vain.  On  the  evening  of  his  death  the  bleed- 
ing  commenced,  caused  by  the  calomel,  and  continued 
until  he  expired.  The  poor  fellow  appeared  very  anxious 
to  live,  and  several  times  in  a  paroxysm  of  mental  agony 
he  clasped  his  arms  around  his  nurse's  neck  entreating 
her  to  save  him.  He  endeavoured  to  talk,  for  he  had 
previously  said  that  if  he  could  not  live,  he  had  some- 
thing to  tell ;  but  it  was  too  late,  and  the  words  died  upon 
his  lips.  He  was  a  stranger,  from  Ireland,  a  meek, 
modest,  and  good  young  man.  He  was  followed  to 
his  grave  by  Brashleigh  and  myself,  and  five  or  six  of 
his  countrymen.  He  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  strict 
in  his  faith,  but  the  priests  were  all  pre-engaged  else- 
where and  could  nor  attend,  so  we  buried  him  without  a 
prayer.  By  adding  a  dollar  to  the  usual  fees  of  the 
sexton  we  procured  him  a  dry  grave,  although  some 
other  poor  fellow's  bones  were  disturbed  to  make  room 
for  him  ;  but  this  was  nothing  to  the  sexton,  and  he 
shoveled  away  the  bones  of  the  first  occupant,  as  if  he 
had  no  right  to  be  there.  When  the  coffin  had  been  duly 
deposited  in  its  receptacle,  he  roughly  cast  in  the  mud 
and  bones,  and  said  '  't  was  finished.'  A  poor  country- 
man of  the  dead  man  was  standing,  with  his  arms  folded, 
listlessly  gazing  on  this  misshapen  grave,  thinking  per- 
haps that  he  might  be  the  next  to  follow  in  the  other's 
footsteps.  He  looked  up  at  the  Spanish  sexton,  and  told 
him  that  his  work  was  badly  done  ;  the  other  gave  an 
insolent  reply,  and  the  poor  Irishman  meekly  offered  to 


SCENES    ON   THE    MISSISSIPPI.  161 

pay  him  something  more  to  finish  the  grave  with  some 
neatness,  but  his  request  was  refused.  He  then  took 
the  spade,  shovelled  more  earth  upon  the  heap,  and, 
patting  it  down,  gave  it  at  length  the  appearance  of  a 
Christian's  resting  place ;  then,  muttering  a  short  prayer, 
— and  I  could  not  help  taking  off  my  hat  when  he  did 
so — he  walked  silently  away.  I  thought  that  his  breast 
was  full  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  and  that,  poor 
and  humble  as  he  was,  he  was  an  honour  to  the  land  he 
came  from. 

"  August  22. — Brashleigh  to-day  received  a  letter  from 
a  correspondent  at  Baton  Rouge,  in  which  the  writer 
inquires  after  his  daughter,  whom  he  had  placed  at 
school  in  the  convent  here.  The  letter  enclosed  another 
for  the  young  lady,  recalling  her  home  to  her  parents,  to 
remain  until  the  epidemic  should  have  subsided.  That 
daughter,  a  lovely  young  girl  of  sixteen,  is  dead  and 
buried. 

"August  23. — I  have  just  returned  from  the  funeral  of 
the  humane  Irishman,  which  Brashleigh  and  I  determined 
upon  attending.  He  died  last  night  at  midnight,  and  was 
buried  at  seven  o'clock  this  morning. 

"  I  begin  to  find  a  strange  and  unnatural  interest  in 
watching  the  progress  of  this  pestilence.  I  have  not 
yet  grown  callous,  like  many  around  me,  but  my  mind 
derives  a  singular,  and,  I  ought  hardly  to  write  it,  a 
pleasurable  excitement  from  the  mortality  with  which  I 
am  beset.  As  people  fall  off,  men  and  women,  rapidly, 
the  thickening  peril  seems  to  partake  something  of  the 
bustling  danger  of  the  battle-field.  Excitement  will 
indeed  flag  sometimes  a  little,  at  witnessing  the  glowing 
14* 


162  THE    OPAL. 

eyes  of  an  acquaintance,  at  beholding  the  earth  closing 
over  youth  and  health  ;  for  I  cannot  then  help  think- 
ing what  will  be  the  anguish  of  fond  parents  whose 
prayers  are  often  wafted  to  Heaven  on  the  pure  breeze 
of  their  native  hills  and  valleys,  invoking  God  to  shield 
their  offspring  from  the  plague  and  the  pestilence — 
often,  and  long  even  after  the  object  of  their  affection 
has  ceased  to  be.  But  then  I  remember  that  '  grieving's 
a  folly,'  that  in  a  few  short  years  the  hopes,  the  regrets, 
the  cares  and  pleasures  of  us  all,  will  like  those  whom 
now  they  agitate  vanish  into  the  tomb.  Poor  A.  used  to 
philosophize  in  this  way  when  upon  the  first  appearance 
of  this  epidemic,  I  urged  every  argument  in  trying  to 
persuade  him  to  leave  the  city,  unfortunately  without  pre- 
vailing until  it  was  too  late.  The  hand  of  death  was 
already  extended  to  grasp  him.  The  breath  of  existence 
was  already  fleeting  away.  He  had  a  mother  and  sisters 
who  may  one  day  need  his  help.  He  possessed  the  affec- 
tions and  plighted  faith  of  a  lovely  woman.  But  in 
heaven  alone  can  they  be  united.  These  are  strong 
reasons  for  living  and  for  wishing  to  live  ;  yet  even  he 
left  the  world  apparently  with  calm  indifference.  He 
had  just  lived  long  enough  to  see  his  hopes  of  fortune 
blighted  ;  the  world  had  hitherto  gone  pleasantly  on  for 
him,  and  though  firm  enough  to  sustain,  he  did  not  care 
about  encountering  any  more  of  its  trials. 

"  I  have  been  sitting  up  with  Mr. ,  a  young  Eng- 
lishman to  whom  I  acted  as  groomsman  at  his  wedding 
in  St.  Louis  a  year  since  ;  and  I  do  not  think  he  can 
recover.  His  wife  is  in  very  delicate  health,  and  expects 
soon  to  become  a  mother.  Her  visit  to  his  bedside  this 


SCENES    ON    THE    MISSISSIPPI.  163 

morning,  when  she  came  to  relieve  my  vigil,  was  distress- 
ing beyond  description.  I  have  not  yet  lost  all  feeling 
on  such  occasions,  though  the  frequent  sight  of  death 
and  desolation  might  almost  make  one  gaze  upon  them 
with  indifference.  Whole  families  have  now  been  swept 

away.  A  Mrs. was  buried  this  morning,  whose 

husband  died  last  week  ;  she  left  two  infants,  twins, 
aged  about  sixteen  months,  both  of  whom  have  been  taken 

ill  to-day.  Her  neighbour,  Mrs. ,  who  lost  a  sister 

and  two  boys,  five  days  since,  has  happily,  as  I  think, 
followed  them  to-day. 

"  An  interesting  youth  from  Boston,  attached  to  the  law- 
office  of  a  gentleman  who  has  shown  him  true  hospi- 
tality, died  yesterday.  He  was  attacked  early  in  the 
season  with  a  violent  typhus  fever,  and  one  night  that  I 
sat  up  with  him,  I  thought  every  breath  might  be  his 
last.  He  suffered  then  dreadfully  ;  but  recovered  to  live 
a  few  miserable  weeks,  to  see  hundreds  of  his  young 
friends  perish  around  him,  is  again  stretched  on  the  bed 
of  sickness,  and  expires  at  the  age  of  nineteen  after  a 
week  of  torture. 

"  There  has  been  a  great  change  in  the  weather,  within 
a  few  hours.  It  is  now  chilly  enough  for  winter  clothing, 
and  the  clear,  the  bright  blue  and  almost  sparkling  skies 
above,  could  never  be  supposed  to  be  dropping  pestilence. 
Yet,  though  the  newspapers  say  the  yellow  fever  is  sub- 
siding, the  physicians  assert  that  it  is  only  because  no 
subjects  are  now  left  for  its  exercise.  All  the  strangers 
that  were  in  town  are  either  dead  or  stretched  upon  the 
bed  of  sickness  j  among  the  latter  are  two  or  three 
slightly  known  to  me.  Their  days  are  numbered,  and  a 


164  THE    OPAL. 

few  hours  will  probably  send  the  last  with  whom  I  have 
any  personal  acquaintance  into  eternity. 

"  Will  there  be  any  fresh  supply  of  '  subjects?'  We 
have  not  yet  arrived  at  the  middle  of  the  ordinary  sickly 
season ;  will  commerce  suspend  its  operations  till  all 
danger  has  really  passed  away?  Four  passengers  of 
the  brig  Shark,  which  arrived  from  a  northern  port 
only  a  week  since,  died  yesterday.  The  mate,  whom  I 
have  seen  drunk  in  the  bar-room  of  my  hotel  ever  since 
his  arrival,  was  carried  off  to  the  '  swamp'  early  this 
morning;  where  it  is  thought  from  his  looks  he  lies  pretty 
well  sobered.  Poor  wretch  !  only  three  nights  since  he 
was  boasting  that  '  he  was  of  too  good  stuff  to  be  turned 
into  Fuller's  earth.' 

"  August  25th. — I  have  just  returned  from  the  funeral 

of   Miss  ,   an  agreeable    and   benevolent   maiden 

lady  who,  while  paying  an  occasional  visit  here  last 
winter,  was  much  against  her  own  inclination  induced 
to  remain  and  superintend  the  domestic  menage  of  a 
relative  who  two  weeks  since  shifted  his  homestead  to 
the  narrow  house.  She  has  now  followed  him.  Brash- 
leigh  and  I  were  the  only  northerners  that  attended  her 
obsequies ;  and  he  was  so  overcome  by  the  tainted  air  of 
the  place,  that  he  turned  off  without  approaching  the 
grave.  Pah !  I'll  go  no  more  among  these  noisome 
sepulchres,  unless,  indeed,  old  Fuller  the  undertaker 
shall  take  me  there  !  I  almost  fancied  that  he  glanced 
like  a  ghoul  upon  Brashleigh  when  he  saw  him  leaning 
faintly  against  the  gateway.  Has  the  old  sinner  taken 
offence  at  some  of  our  rough  jokes  ?  or  can  he  really  single 
out  his  victims  with  '  an  evil  eye  ?' 


SCENES    ON   THE    MISSISSIPPI.  165 

"  September  2d,  18 — .  My  Bible  tells  me  that  this  is 
my  baptismal  day,  and  I  look  back  in  vain  to  the  twenty- 
seven  years  I  have  passed,  for  a  morning  of  more  painful 
interest  than  this.  Brashleigh,  in  the  room  adjoining  that 
in  which  I  write,  is  just  hovering  between  life  and  death  ; 
his  fever  has  been  very  obstinate,  owing  to  the  vigour  of 
his  constitution.  This  is  his  fifth  day,  and  if  the  black 
vomit  should  not  come  on  in  a  few  hours,  there  may  be 
very  great  hopes  of  his  recovery.  I  have  been  with  him 
incessantly — have  given  him  his  medicines,  which  he 
will  sometimes  refuse  from  others,  and  dare  not  leave 
him  for  a  moment,  as  I  have  found  he  takes  advantage 
of  my  absence  to  get  up,  and  has  more  than  once  fainted 
in  consequence. 

"  Judge has  just  stepped  in  to  tell  me  that  poor 

C.  is  no  more !  His  fever  took  an  unfavourable  turn  on 
the  third  day,  and  he  died  on  the  fourth.  He  was  taken 
ill  after  leaving  my  lodgings  on  AVednesday  night,  and 
was  pronounced  out  of  danger  on  Friday  afternoon. 
His  calomel  had  taken  effect,  and  every  symptom  was 
favourable  ;  but  the  fatal  black  vomit  commenced  on 
Saturday,  and  on  Sunday  evening  at  ten  o'clock  he  was 
a  corpse.  He  retained  his  faculties  at  intervals  to  the 
last  moment,  and  died  as  a  man  ought  to  die. 

"  He  died  on  his  birthday,  aged  twenty-four  years. 
On  the  same  day  last  year,  his  brother  died  of  the  same 
disease.  Would  I  had  followed  sooner,  if  Brashleigh 
survive  not  his  present  illness  ! 

"  I  am  interrupted  by  my  poor  friend  vomiting — thank 
Heaven  !  there  is  nothing  black  yet ! 

"  I  have  just  returned  from  running  to  tell  the  doctor 


166  THE    OPAL. 

that  I  think  my  patient  out  of  danger,  and  I  expect  the 
physician  every  moment.  God  grant  that  he  may  con- 
firm my  opinion. 

"  I  commenced  this  system  of  journalizing,  my  dearest 
Gertrude,  in  the  faint  hope  that  what  I  write  might 
reach  you,  and  afford  some  relief  to  your  anxiety — for  I 
know  that  the  newspapers  will  be  filled  with  exaggerated 
accounts,  if  to  say  the  truth  they  can  be  exaggerated. 
But  I  shall  now,  for  reasons  sufficiently  apparent  upon 
the  face  of  it,  withhold  this  journal  from  you  for  the 
present.  The  fact  is  the  fever  was  never  worse  than  it 
now  is,  and  it  is  generally  thought  it  never  was  so  fatal. 
Nearly  all  the  cases  of  illness  when  I  made  my  last 
entry  in  my  diary,  have  terminated  in  death.  This  is 
the  stranger's  grave — the  mortality  is  among  them  ex- 
clusively, and  as  I  have  few  acquaintances  with  the 
natives,  every  day  brings  on  the  burial  of  a  friend,  and 
leaves  me  more  and  more  solitary  in  this  desolate  city. 

"  For  myself  I  feel  perfectly  confident  that  I  shall 
escape  the  fever,  and  I  may  say  that  my  spirits  are 
good,  now  that  Brashleigh  is  out  of  danger,  though  it  is 
dismal  to  live  in  such  continued  anxiety  for  others. 
One  cannot  form  a  friendship  but  it  is  almost  sure  to 
be  broken,  and  the  incessant  tales  which  one  hears  of 
the  sickness  of  one  friend,  and  the  death'  of  another, 
are  worse  than  the  incessant  tolling  of  a  funeral  bell. 
Yet  with  all  this,  if  I  could  only  think  that  my  Ger- 
trude's feelings  were  at  rest,  I  could  be  quite  contented. 

"  Two  o'clock,  P.  M.— Brashleigh  !— Oh  God  !  the 
buoyant  hopes,  the  prayerful  thanks  I  breathed  for  him 
this  morning! 


SCENES    ON   THE    MISSISSIPPI.  167 

"  Eleven  o'clock  at  night.-^- Brashleigh  has  been  almost 
despaired  of  by  his  physician  since  the  morning,  but 
again  we  are  hoping  for  the  best.  We  have  commenced 
giving  him  brandy  and  water ;  thus  far  with  very  great 
effect.  If  he  does  not  grow  worse  during  the  night,  he 
may  even  yet  be  out  of  danger  to-morrow.  He  has  a 
very  powerful  constitution,  and  I  think  with  the  blessing 
of  the  Almighty  we  yet  may  save  him. 

"  September  the  third,  four  o'clock,  A.  M. — Brashleigh 
is  barely  alive  ;  he  has  the  black  vomit  and  hiccough  ;  his 
iron  constitution  still  struggles  with  the  disease ;  but,  oh 
God  !  the  issues  of  life  are  with  thee  alone. 

"  September  20th,  18 — .  I  am  slowly  regaining  my 
strength,  and  yesterday  walked  around  the  square  in 
the  cool  of  the  evening,  to  see  a  friendly  Creole  who 
has  been  very  kind  to  me  during  my  illness.  The  dis- 
interestedness of  this  gentleman  must  be  rare  among 
the  class  to  which  he  belongs,  for  I  have  never  heard 
the  white  Creole  population  accused  of  benevolence  or 
humanity,  at  this  dreadful  season.  A  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  with  the  unvaried  exclamation  of  ' pauvre 
diablej  is  the  sum  total  of  their  sympathy.  But  their 
prejudices  against  Northerners  will  in  time  pass  away, 
and,  meanwhile,  the  humanity  of  the  quadroons  is  very 
frequently  displayed  during  the  ravages  of  the  epidemic. 
Never  can  I  forget  their  kindness  to  poor  Brashleigh. 
During  his  illness  his  bedside  was  never  unoccupied  by 
some  of  these  kind  women  ;  fanning  him,  or  administer- 
ing some  cooling  beverage.  Others  again  were  con- 
stantly sending  him  custards,  and  various  kinds  of 


168  THE    OPAL. 

drinks  :  after  the  fatal  symptom  of  the  black  vomit 
commenced,  and  his  physicians  ceased  giving  him 
medicines,  they  entered  upon  a  complete  system  of 
treatment  among  themselves,  and  six  or  seven  were 
employed  about  him  during  the  whole  of  the  last  day. 
But  alas  !  he  was  too  far  gone,  and  every  effort  to  rob 
the  grave  of  its  victim  was  unavailing.  My  noble 
friend  at  first  attracted  their  sympathy  by  the  firmness 
of  his  conduct,  of  which  they  spoke  in  terms  of  asto- 
nishment, saying  that  he  was  '  trop  brave  pour  mourir.' 
From  the  commencement  of  his  illness  until  the  moment 
I  knocked  under  myself,  a  period  of  six  days  and  a 
half,  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sigh,  ever  escaped  him,  and 
his  spirits  retained  all  the  elasticity  they  had  possessed 
when  in  health.  He  had  often  told  me  in  earlier  days 
that  he  '  meant  to  die  like  a  gentleman,'  wherever  or 
however  his  fate  might  overtake  him,  nor  did  the  manner 
in  which  I  ridiculed  the  phrase,  prevent  him  from 
defending  it  according  to  his  own  eccentric  notions.  'A 
deathbed,'  he  would  say,  '  a  deathbed,  my  dear  Van,  is 
the  true  test  of  the  gentleman  as  well  as  the  Christian. 
It  is  there  that  good  breeding  and  high  courtesy  will 
receive  its  last  trial,  and  he  who  is  guilty  of  a  breach  of 
that  politeness  which  springs  from  a  proper  consideration 
for  others,  even  in  his  last  extremity,  he  does  not  leave 
the  world  like  a  gentleman.' 

"  In  one  interval  of  his  illness,  when  his  attendants 
thought  him  out  of  danger,  I  sportively  reminded  JBrash- 
leigh  how  nearly  but  a  few  hours  before  he  had  realized 
an  opportunity  of  reducing  his  favourite  theory  to  prac- 
tice. He  answered  with  a  grave  humour,  impossible  to 


SCENES    ON    THE    MISSISSIPPI.  169 

describe  upon  paper,  that  he  had  been  fully  aware  of 
his  critical  situation, « that  both  his  blood  and  breeding 
were  subject  to  a  trial,'  and  then,  while  a  shade  of  sad- 
ness passed  momentarily  over  his  countenance,  added, 
with  the  singular  foreboding  of  a  doomed  man,  '  This  ill- 
ness, Vanderlyn,  will  yet  give  you  an  opportunity  of  doing 
justice  to  the  principle  which  you  ridicule  as  the  fan- 
tastic humour  of  your  friend.'  The  result  fully  proved 
the  words  of  that  noble  and  gifted  though  singular  young 
man.  When,  after  his  relapse,  I  informed  him  of  his 
situation,  he  received  the  tidings  with  as  much  indif- 
ference as  if  they  related  to  another  person,  while  at  the 
same  time  thanking  me  for  the  communication,  as  for  a 
piece  of  intelligence  it  might  be  well  for  him  to  know, 
and  kind  in  me  to  communicate.  He  then,  after  appear- 
ing for  a  moment  busied  in  arranging  his  thoughts,  gave 
me  his  final  directions  in  an  unaltered  voice,  and  re- 
proached and  shamed  me  for  the  want  of  firmness  with 
which  I  received  them.  Toward  the  last  I  had  another 
similar  conversation  with  him.  He  had  then  had  the 
black  vomit  and  hiccough  all  that  day,  and  during  the 
night,  which  was  already  well  advanced,  I  asked  him 
whether  he  had  still  any  hopes  of  himself.  He  replied, 
that  it  was  a  difficult  question  to  answer,  but  that,  as 
in  all  probability  he  should  die  before  morning,  I  had 
better  distribute  the  fruits  and  other  delicacies  for  a  sick 
man  which  stood  upon  a  table  near  his  bed,  among  those 
who  were  grouped  around  it,  as  they  must  need  the 
refreshment  which  could  now  be  of  no  avail  to  him. 
This  singular  consideration  for  others  at  that  awful 
moment,  so  touchingly  realized  the  boast  at  which  I 
15 


170  THE    OPAL. 

had  so  often  and  so  recently  jested,  that  the  scene 
unmanned  me  completely,  weakened  as  I  was  with  long 
watching,  and  under  the  influence  of  the  disease,  which 
had  already  begun  to  act  upon  my  own  system.  I  soon 
after  left  him.  He  grew  worse  during  the  night, 
throughout  which  I  heard  every  groan  he  uttered,  and 
thought  the  morning  would  never  break.  About  dawn 
the  hideous  features  of  his  disease  brought  its  termination. 
In  the  last  effort  of  expiring  nature,  he  made  a  motion 
for  me  to  cross  his  arms  upon  his  bosom ;  when,  turning 
yet  once  more  upon  his  couch,  he  threw  up  a  substance 
as  black  as  a  coal,  and  almost  instantly  breathed  his 
last.  He  was  buried,  as  they  told  me,  by  eight  o'clock 
on  the  same  day,  but  before  that  hour  I  was  myself  in  a 
raging  delirium  of  fever. 

"  I  paid  a  melancholy  visit  this  morning  to  the  church- 
yard, or  swamp,  as  it  is  generally  called,  but  could  not 
distinguish  the  pile  of  mud  and  bones  which  covered 
poor  Brashleigh's  remains,  from  the  thousands  of  similar 
mounds  by  which  it  was  surrounded.  The  increase  of 
graves  since  my  last  visit  to  the  cemetery  is  dreadful 
indeed.  While  the  fever  contagion  was  at  its  height,  a 
dozen  coffins  were  frequently  lying  unburied  upon  the 
ground,  just  where  ihehackmen  had  'dumped'  them,  and 
at  one  visit  I  paid  the  place  while  following  the  remains 
of  a  mutual  acquaintance  with  Brashleigh,  the  body  of 
two  little  Scotch  boys,  who  had  died  in  the  hospital, 
were  found  torn  from  their  wretched  coffin  and  stripped 
of  their  grave-clothes,  by  some  monster  who  could  not 
withstand  the  temptation  of  plundering  articles  so  much 
in  demand. 


SCENES    ON    THE    MISSISSIPPI.  171 

"  When  looking  around  now  upon  the  desolate  scene, 
1  thought  that  the  last  resting-place  of  the  friend  of  my 
youth  might  perchance  have  been  invaded  in  a  similar 
manner,  while  I,  the  only  living  being  that  was  near  to 
keep  a  vigil  over  his  remains,  lay  tossing  feeble  as  a 
child  upon  the  bed  of  sickness.  I  could  not  but  shudder 
at  the  dreary  fate  that  had  overtaken  one  so  noble  and 
gifted ;  of  a  youth  so  unblemished  and  promising,  and  a 
manhood  so  rich  in  all  that  should  adorn  human  nature 
in  its  prime.  He  has  gone  like  the  sunbeam  through  the 
forest,  like  the  breeze  upon  the  river,  that  gladdens  and 
enlivens  the  landscape  for  a  moment,  and  then  passes 
away  to  cheer  some  other,  some  unknown  scene.  What 
booted  all  his  talent,  and  humour,  and  loftiness  of  charac- 
ter? That  busy  mind,  so  fraught  with  schemes  of  wide- 
spread usefulness ;  that  disposition,  so  rich  in  excellence, 
yet  careless  of  praise ;  that  soul,  which  aspired  rather  to 
form  itself  into  a  model  of  what  a  man  should  be  than 
to  grasp  the  awards  of  any  outward  ambition  ;  what 
errand  had  that  soul  here,  that  it  should  be  thus  recalled 
when  just  ripened  for  its  best  endeavour — that  it  should 
be  thus  dragged  away,  leaving  no  impress  behind  it, 
save  upon  one  lonely  heart  like  mine  ?  Was  his  varied 
study  and  accomplishment,  his  nice  and  almost  subtle 
knowledge  of  character,  his  practical  skill  in  affairs,  his 
established  principles,  and  tried  courage  in  maintaining 
them,  were  they  all  then  permitted  to  unfold  themselves 
and  ripen  for  nothing  ?  Did  they  mature  from  year  to 
year — were  they  approved  again  and  again  alike  amid 
the  horrors  of  the  battle,  the  dissipation  of  the  camp,  and 
the  unwelcome  leisure  that  often  saps  a  vigorous  mind, 


172  THE    OPAL. 

pining  for  active  employment — were  all  these  valuable 
faculties  given,  fostered,  enlarged  and  fully  tested  in  all 
their  original  power  and  cultured  excellence,  for  only 
such  a  consummation  as  this  ! 

"  Truly,  the  very  object  of  living  would  seem  to  be  that 
we  may  die ;  and  death,  instead  of  being  a  violence  done 
to  our  mortal  nature — a  change  and  a  rupture  of  our 
condition  of  being — is  but  the  appointed  climax  of  exist- 
ence here — the  turning  point  in  the  tide  of  our  immortal 
souls!  —  That  tide,  whose  receding  waves  withdraw 
them,  like  waifs  flung  for  a  season  upon  the  shores  of 
this  world,  to  be  borne  back  again  upon  the  eternal  sea 
which  washes  THE  THRONE  OF  GOD  !" 


EVENING. 

THE  sun  has  set — yet  see !  the  evening  sky 

Glows  with  his  farewell  glance — a  softened  light, 
More  beautifully  tender,  though  less  bright 

Than  in  the  west  is  burning  gorgeously. 

Yet  while  we  gaze,  it  fades,  and  like  the  eye 
Of  seraph,  looking  from  his  home  afar, 
Gleams  faintly  through  the  blue  the  vesper  star, 

How  lovely  in  its  pure  serenity ! — 
This  gentle  eve  !  with  what  a  sweet  control 
Its  influence  sinks  upon  the  prayerful  soul, 

Tired  with  life's  ceaseless  turmoil,  and  the  weight 
Of  thoughts  oppressive — sure  'tis  GOD'S  good  gift 
That  thus  hath  power  our  spirits  to  uplift 

When  fainting,  earthbound,  and  disconsolate. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JAIRUS. 


BY  HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT. 

IT  was  the  evening  of  a  summer  day 

Serene  and  breathless ;  gentle  dews  from  heaven 

Fell  silently  upon  the  grateful  flowers, 

That  all  the  livelong  day  had  bowed  their  heads 

Drooping  with  heat,  but  now  from  every  sod 

Sent  up  their  happy  perfumes  to  the  sky, 

Purer  than  man's  thanksgiving.     From  the  brake 

Tufted  with  jessamine,  gushed  the  enchanting  song 

Of  the  rapt  nightingale ;  and  round  the  well, 

Filling  their  pitchers,  underneath  the  palm, 

The  village  girls,  a  gay  and  graceful  throng, 

Stood  laughing.     But  anon  a  sadder  mood 

Fell  on  their  spirits,  as  they  thought  of  her, 

Who  lay  even  now,  beyond  a  father's  hope, 

To  smile,  or  raise  her  fair  young  head  again, 

Jairus'  daughter.     Hushed  was  all  their  glee  ; 

And  their  hearts  smote  them,  as  they  homeward  went, 

That  they  did  laugh  but  now,  and  she  the  while, 

Their  innocent  playmate,  dying — perchance  dead. 

He  was  a  ruler  of  the  synagogue, 
A  dark  grave  man,  not  cheerful,  but  austere 
And  stern  withal,  though  pious.     He  had  known 
15* 


174  THE    OPAL. 

Sorrow  and  suffering,  and  had  weaned  his  heart 
From  earthly  things  to  fix  his  hope  on  high. 
Yet  ever  would  his  gloomy  brow  unbend, 
As  the  blithe  carol  of  that  little  maid, 
Or  the  clear  treble  of  her  joyous  laugh, 
Spoke  music  to  his  ear,  and  won  his  soul 
To  smile  on  her,  when  darkest. 

He  had  watched 

Long  days  beside  her  couch,  and  marked  the  change 
Creep  o'er  her  face,  the  shadow  which  death  casts 
Before  his  coming.     Save  his  own,  no  hand 
Had  smoothed  her  pillow ;  none  had  raised  but  he 
The  chalice  to  her  lips,  which  still  were  wreathed 
Into  the  painful  semblance  of  a  smile, 
Striving  to  thank  him  for  't     He  broke  no  bread, 
Nor  tasted  wine,  but  sat  in  desolate  grief, 
Since  the  first  night  the  fever  smote  his  child, 
Rending  his  garments,  and  with  ceaseless  prayer 
Seeking  the  Lord ;  until  all  hope  was  o'er, 
And  it  was  evident  that,  ere  the  sun 
Should  leave  the  plain,  her  soul  must  pass  away. 
But  while  he  mourned  a  neighbour  entered  in, 
And  told  him  how  the  Son  of  Man  was  nigh, 
Teaching  the  people  on  this  side  the  sea. 
Then  he  arose,  and  went  his  way,  and  fell 
Before  the  feet  of  Jesus,  where  he  stood, 
And  earnestly  besought  him,  crying,  "  Lord, 
My  little  daughter  lieth,  even  now, 
At  point  of  death.     I  pray  thee,  come  to  her, 
And  lay  thy  hands  on  her ;  and  she  shall  live." 
And  Jesus  went  along  with  him.     And  they 
Who  had  been  gathered  round  him,  followed  on, 
And  thronged  him.     And  a  certain  woman  there, 
Which  had  been  wasted  by  a  flow  of  blood 
Twelve  weary  years,  came  in  the  press  behind 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JAIRtTS.  175 

And  touched  his  garments'  selvage — for  she  said, 
"  If  I  but  touch  his  clothes,  I  shall  be  whole !" 
But  he  perceiving  turned  himself  about, 
And  asked  the  crowd,  who  touched  his  raiment's  hem 
Then  she,  in  fear  and  trembling,  being  healed, 
And  knowing  that  was  done  in  her,  fell  down 
Confessing.     And  he  said  to  her,  "  Arise, 
Daughter,  and  go  in  peace ;  thy  faith  alone 
Hath  made  thee  whole  !" 

And  while  he  yet  did  speak, 
Came  handmaids  running  from  the  ruler's  house, 
Which  said — "  Thy  child  is  dead,  why  troublest  thou 
The  master  farther  1"     But  when  Jesus  heard, 
He  said  unto  the  father — "  Yet  fear  not ! 
Only  believe  !" 

And  thence  he  suiFered  none 
To  follow  after  him,  save  James,  and  John 
Brother  of  James,  and  Peter ;  and  he  came 
Into  the  house — a  pleasant  house  and  fair, 
Shadowed  by  olives,  and  a  creeping  vine 
That  wound  about  the  casements,  with  green  leaves 
In  the  calm  sunshine  twinkling,  and  the  plash 
Of  a  cool  fountain  from  the  inner  court 
Murmuring  pleasantly.     But  now  the  voice 
Of  men  that  wept,  and  women's  shriller  wail 
Filled  all  with  tumult,  and  the  sound  of  wo. 
He  said  to  them — "  Why  make  ye  this  ado? — 
And  wherefore  weep  ye  1 — the  maid  is  not  dead  ; 
But  sleepeth !" 

And  they  laughed  him  to  scorn  ! 
Then  did  he  put  them  forth,  and  taking  none 
But  her  that  bore  the  maiden,  sorrowing  now 
With  an  exceeding  sorrow,  and  the  sire, 
And  those  that  came  with  him,  he  entered  in 
Where  she  was  laid. 


176  THE    OPAL. 

Her  face  was  very  pale, 
Paler  than  her  white  vestment ;  and  her  lips, 
Parted  a  little,  wore  almost  the  smile 
Which  constantly  played  over  them  in  life, 
Nor  had  in  death  quite  passed  from  them.     Her  hands 
Were  folded  on  her  breast.     Some  fresh  bright  flowers, 
Sweets  to  the  sweet,  scattered  their  perfume  round, 
Emblems  of  beauty's  briefness — soon  to  die. 
But  when  he  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  cried, 
"  Damsel,  I  say  to  thee,  arise  !"  a  blush, 
A  warm  bright  blush,  shot  o'er  the  ashy  face, 
Conscious  and  beautiful — the  pallid  lips 
Waxed  rosy,  and  breathed  forth  an  odorous  sigh, 
And  she  upraised  her  eyes  with  a  clear  light, 
Alive  and  lustrous ;  and  arose  straightway 
And  walked. 

Astonished  were  all  they  that  saw, 
With  great  astonishment;  and  yet  their  joy 
Was  mightier  than  their  wonder  was,  or  wo 
Had  been.     The  father,  the  austere  dark  man, 
Who  had  not  wept  before  for  very  dearth 
Of  tears  and  agony  of  soul,  wept  now. 
But  these  were  tears  of  thankfulness,  not  grief. 


THE  MISSION  UNFULFILLED. 

FOUND  AMONG  THE  PAPERS  OF  A  DECEASED  FRIEND. 
BY  MRS.  EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

"  You  wonder  at  my  despondency,  Ingoldsby,  and  ask, 
how,  with  my  prospects  in  life,  I  can  ever  indulge  even 
momentary  gloom  ?  I  am  not  surprised  at  your  ques- 
tion, for,  to  outward  seeming,  every  thing  is  well  with 
me.  I  am  rapidly  rising  in  an  honourable  profession, — 
I  possess  youth  and  health,  blessings  in  themselves 
beyond  all  price,— my  wife  is  one  of  the  loveliest  of  her 
sex, — and  my  father's  fortune  promises  me  a  future  of 
ease  and  competence.  Whence  then  springs  the  thorn 
which  pierces  my  bosom?  Alas!  'Every  heart  knoweth 
its  own  bitterness,  and  a  stranger  intermeddleth  not 
therewith.'  My  whole  life  has  been  a  conflict,  a  fruit- 
less struggle  between  antagonistic  impulses,  and  in  now 
disclosing  to  you  the  secret  history  of  my  feelings,  I  am 
yielding  to  an  instinct  which  I  can  neither  comprehend 
nor  subdue. 

"  My  family  belong  to  that  class  of  persons  who  pay 


178  THE    OPAL. 

the  most  scrupulous  respect  to  the  dictates  of  what  the 
world  calls  '  propriety,'  and  are  strictly  attentive  to  all 
the  conventional  forms  of  religion,  without  possessing  a 
single  idea  of  moral  responsibility,  or  heartfelt  piety. 
They  are  of  those  who  go  to  church  because  it  is 
respectable  to  do  so,  and  who  keep  the  letter  of  the 
commandments  because  the  open  violation  of  them  is 
rather  ungenteel.  My  father  fancied  he  had  fulfilled 
his  duty  when  he  taught  his  children  to  avoid  low  com- 
pany, to  cultivate  gentlemanly  tastes,  and  to  pay  the 
most  unbounded  deference  to  the  worldly  code  of  honour; 
while  my  mother  was  perfectly  satisfied  if  we  always 
appeared  well  dressed  and  well  behaved.  The  Bible 
was  our  Sunday  book.  We  read  it  with  due  emphasis 
and  discretion,  while  our  parents  dozed  in  their  easy 
chairs  during  the  interval  between  the  church  services ; 
and  we  liked  it  as  a  means  of  helping  to  wear  through  a 
tedious  day.  But  we  were  never  taught  to  regard  it  as 
a  rule  of  conduct ;  we  were  never  instructed  in  its 
sublime  truths ;  never  won  to  love  it  as  the  fountain  of 
all  goodness. 

"  It  was  during  a  prolonged  illness  which  befell  me 
when  I  was  about  thirteen  years  of  age,  that  I  first 
received  any  other  impressions  of  religious  faith.  The 
nurse  who  attended  me  was  one  of  those  gentle,  patient, 
loving  creatures,  who  are  so  peculiarly  fitted  to  minister 
to  suffering  humanity.  Her  naturally  strong  mind  had 
received  no  other  cultivation  than  such  as  her  humble 
piety  could  bestow.  In  all  mere  worldly  knowledge  she 
was  utterly  unskilled,  but  in  the  solemn  truths  of  Chris- 
tianity she  was  deeply  and  thoroughly  versed.  It  was 


THE    MISSION    UNFULFILLED.  179 

strange  to  see  how  elevated  became  her  tone  of  thought, 
how  refined  her  language,  how  almost  poetic  her  ideas, 
when  she  discoursed  of  that  pure  light  which  had 
illumined  her  soul.  She  was  then  no  longer  the  humble 
and  unlearned  menial !  she  was  a  teacher  of  sublime 
truths;  and  I  have  sometimes  listened  to  her  earnest  and 
powerful  appeals,  until  an  awe  has  crept  over  me,  and  I 
have  almost  expected  to  see  her  form  expand  into  that  of 
an  angelic  messenger  of  mercy. 

"  Naturally  dreamy  and  imaginative  in  my  character 
I  was  yet  extremely  reserved.  The  tone  of  persiflage 
and  ridicule  which  pervaded  the  whole  family,  the  dis- 
position to  sneer  at  any  thing  like  sentiment,  and  the 
unsparing  contempt  which  was  visited  upon  every  thing 
like  genuine  feeling,  early  taught  me  the  necessity  of 
shutting  up  my  heart  from  the  gaze  of  those  nearest 
and  dearest  to  me.  There  was  none  to  sympathize  with 
me  in  the  deep  joy  which  thrilled  my  soul  when  I  drank 
in  the  sweet  music  of  air,  and  earth,  and  ocean  ;  none 
whose  heartstrings  vibrated  in  unison  with  mine  own, 
when  the  contemplation  of  creation's  wonders  had  called 
forth  the  voice  of  prayer  and  praise  in  my  soul ; 
none  to  draw  the  pure  waters  of  affection  from  the  bub- 
bling fountain  of  deep  love  which  ever  welled  up  within 
my  bosom.  A  shrinking  dread  of  that  ridicule  which 
the  world  considers  the  test  of  truth,  while  it  is,  in  fact, 
only  another  evidence  of  the  adroitness  of  falsehood, 
taught  me  to  conceal  my  real  nature  under  the  mask  of 
levity.  The  purest  and  best  instincts  of  my  soul  were 
repressed ;  my  sweetest  impulses  were  controlled  by  a 
coward  fear  of  that '  dread  laugh,'  and  while  my  heart  was 


180  THE    OPAL. 

actually  overflowing  with  reverential  love  to  the  God 
who  had  lavished  such  blessings  on  an  evil  world,  I  was, 
in  outward  show,  the  most  reckless,  thoughtless,  light- 
minded,  of  my  whole  family. 

"  Alas  !  for  the  being  whose  childhood  thus  becomes 
an  acted  falsehood  !  Alas  !  for  him  who,  ere  he  leaves 
the  paths  of  *  youth's  delighted  hours,'  has  seen  the 
trail  of  the  serpent  over  life's  fairest  flowers  ;  and  has 
thus  early  learned  that  to  be  false  to  his  own  instincts, 
is  to  be  true  to  the  icorlcTs  sense  of  right ! 

"  My  illness  came  just  at  the  moment  when  my  cha- 
racter was  most  impressible — and  its  results  were  inef- 
faceable. The  languor  which  bodily  suffering  left  upon 
me,  seemed  to  be  peculiarly  favourable  to  mental  ac- 
tivity, and  never  had  my  intellect  been  more  vigorous 
than  at  the  moment  when  my  physical  powers  were 
completely  prostrated.  The  teachings  of  my  good 
nurse  were  not  lost  upon  me.  She  gave  a  lofty  direc- 
tion to  my  vague  aspirations  after  the  good  and  the 
true  ;  she  showed  me  how  to  seek  the  fountain  of  all 
knowledge ;  she  taught  me  the  priceless  value  of  an 
immortal  soul,  and  though  I  shrunk  from  disclosing 
even  to  her  the  extent  of  her  influence,  yet  I  inly 
resolved  that  my  future  life  should  bear  witness  to  its 
good  effects.  It  was  then  that  my  heart  first  throbbed 
with  the  strong,  and,  alas  !  unsatisfied  impulse,  which 
has  been  so  long  my  torment. 

"  My  disease  had  reached  its  crisis,  and  no  hope 
remained  of  my  recovery,  when  I  fell  into  a  state  of 
torpor,  so  profound  that  nothing  but  the  faint  vibrations 
of  my  pulse  gave  evidence  of  my  existence.  At  length 


THE   MISSION   UNFULFILLED.  181 

even  these  ceased  ;  I  was  sensible  of  a.  frightful  feeling 
of  suffocation  and  oppression,  and  then  all  consciousness 
was  over.  I  have  been  since  told  that  nearly  forty -eight 
hours  elapsed  while  I  lay  in  seeming  death ;  but  I  re- 
member nothing  that  then  occurred.  My  first  vivid 
sensation  was  of  a  voice,  which  seemed  to  be  speaking 
within  my  heart,  for  I  heard  no  sound,  and  yet  I  felt 
the  words,  even  as  a  deaf  man  may  feel  the  warm 
breath  which  propels  the  syllables  that  are  uttered  by  a 
familiar  friend.  The  tones  seemed  to  sweep  over  my 
soul,  warming  it  to  new  life,  and  yet  refreshing  its  dull 
torpor,  as  the  summer  wind  passes  over  the  wearied 
frame  of  the  sleeping  wayfarer.  The  words  were  these: 
*  Thou  hast  been  within  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death,  but  thy  time  is  not  yet :  from  the  portals  of  the 
tomb  thou  art  sent  back  to  fulfil  thy  mission : — go  and 
teach !' 

"  No  human  lips  uttered  these  solemn  accents.  They 
were  breathed  into  my  soul,  not  spoken  to  my  senses  j 
and  yet  I  felt  their  vibration  as  if  it  had  been  actual 
sound.  The  next  moment  the  chain  which  bound  my 
faculties  was  loosed.  I  heard  with  my  outward  ear, 
and  the  voice  of  wailing  arose  from  some  one  beside  me. 
Slowly  and  painfully  I  lifted  the  heavy  lids,  which 
seemed  to  lie  with  leadenlike  weight  upon  my  eyes,  and 
looked  out,  with  dim  and  dazzled  gaze,  upon  the  objects 
that  surrounded  me.  My  first  glance  fell  upon  my 
mother,  who  wept  beside  me ;  my  next  took  in  all  the 
awful  array  of  death  !  I  was  shrouded  and  sheeted  for 
the  grave  !  A  start  of  horror  restored  me  to  perfect 
consciousness,  and,  though  many  days  elapsed  ere  my 
16 


182  THE    OPAL. 

nerves  recovered  their  healthy  tone,  yet  the  grave  had} 
for  that  time,  lost  its  victim. 

"  I  was  then  a  mere  boy,  but  the  impression  which 
that  terrible  event  left  upon  me  was  most  enduring.  I 
could  give  but  one  interpretation  to  the  oracular  voice 
which  had  awakened  me  from  my  dreamless  sleep,  and 
from  that  moment  I  vowed  to  devote  my  life  to  the  ser- 
vice of  God,  as  a  minister  at  his  holy  altar.  But  even 
then,  with  all  this  fearful  sense  of  responsibility  hanging 
over  me,  I  dared  not  avow  my  feelings  and  my  wishes. 
I  knew  that  my  extreme  youth  would  be  regarded  as  a 
reason  why  I  should  be  met  with  ridicule,  and  I  resolved 
to  prosecute  my  studies,  silently  and  secretly,  with  the 
view  to  the  future  dedication  of  myself  to  the  church. 
My  temper  was  naturally  weak  and  vacillating.  I  clung 
with  superstitious  tenacity  to  my  belief  that  my  destiny 
had  been  clearly  marked  out  for  me,  and  yet  worlds 
could  scarce  have  tempted  me  to  avow  my  intentions  to 
those  who  ought  to  have  been  most  interested  in  my 
welfare. 

"  As  years  passed  away,  I  found  the  task  became  still 
more  difficult,  and  trusting  to  some  lucky  chance  in  fu- 
ture, I  allowed  my  life  still  to  be  the  acted  lie  which  it 
had  been  from  childhood.  I  was  convinced  then,  as  cer- 
tainly as  I  am  now,  that  I  had  heard  the  voice  of  my 
guardian  angel  in  the  decree  which  had  revealed  to  me 
my  vocation  ;  and  yet  I  dared  not  obey  it  openly.  I 
dreaded  the  ridicule  of  those  who  never  enter  the  secret 
chambers  of  their  own  hearts  to  listen  to  the  solemn 
echoes  which  are  there  awakened.  I  feared  the  sneer 
of  those  who  know  not  what  it  is  to  look  into  the 


THE    MISSION    UNFULFILLED.  183 

mysteries  of  their  own  being,  and  learn  how  clearly 
the  instincts  of  the  soul  are  revealed  in  the  oracular  lan- 
guage of  impulse. 

"I  had  numbered  my  fifteenth  summer,  when  my 
father  one  day  came  to  me,  wearing  a  countenance  full 
of  joy,  and  holding  in  his  hand  an  open  letter. 

"  '  I  would  not  inform  you  of  my  intentions,'  said  he, 
*  lest  I  should  only  have  stored  up  disappointment  for 
you  ;  but  I  may  now  tell  you  that  for  the  past  year  I 
have  been  using  my  influence  to  procure  you  a  cadetship 
in  the  Military  Academy  of  West  Point,  and  this  letter 
contains  the  tidings  of  your  appointment.' 

"  Words  cannot  convey  an  idea  of  my  overwhelming 
anguish  at  this  address.  I  believe  I  must  have  grown 
pale  and  trembled,  for  my  father  took  occasion  to  read 
me  a  long  lecture  on  the  virtue  of  personal  courage,  and 
the  glory  of  military  enterprise.  In  spite  of  my  cow- 
ardly dread  of  his  anger  and  ridicule,  I  ventured  to 
stammer  out  my  own  wishes  respecting  my  future  voca- 
tion. Never  shall  I  forget  his  look  of  blank  amazement, 
and  the  withering  smile  of  contempt  with  which  he  re- 
plied : 

"  '  You  have  singularly  mistaken  your  own  capacity, 
my  son  ;  it  would  be  quite  impossible  for  you  to  make  a 
figure  in  the  pulpit ;  you  have  none  of  the  brilliant  genius, 
none  of  the  fire  of  eloquence,  nothing  in  short  which 
could  reconcile  me  to  the  idea  of  seeing  a  son  of  mine 
devote  himself  to  the  church.  You  could  never  rise 
above  mediocrity,  and  such  a  position  would  be  to  me 
a  daily  mortification.' 

"  '  But  I  might  do  good  even  if  I  achieved  not  great- 


184  .  THE    OPAL. 

ness,'  was  my  reply  ;  '  the  weakest  instruments  are  some- 
times employed  in  the  saving  of  souls.' 

"  His  lip  curled  with  a  sneer  of  bitter  scorn  as  he  said, 
'  Where  learned  you  such  cant  terms  ?  One  would 
think  you  had  been  brought  up  on  the  threshold  of  a 
conventicle.  Nothing  but  the  most  brilliant  talents  can 
excuse  the  presumption  of  a  man,  who  stands  up  in  the 
place  of  a  teacher  to  the  multitude  ;  and  you  shall  never, 
with  my  consent,  swell  the  crowd  of  "  fools,"  who  "  rush 
in  where  angels  fear  to  tread."  ' 

"  I  was  abashed  and  confounded.  The  cold  reasoning 
of  the  man  of  the  world  seemed  like  truth  to  my  weak 
resolve,  and,  still  trusting  to  some  future  chance,  I  left 
home  to  enter  upon  the  duties  of  a  profession  the  most 
repugnant  of  all  others  to  my  feelings. 

"  I  cannot  describe  to  you  all  the  misery  I  endured 
during  the  next  few  years.  Tell  me  not  of  sorrows  and 
disappointments  and  mortifications  ; — there  is  no  sorrow 
like  that  of  him  who  feels  on  his  conscience  the  weight 
of  a  broken  vow  ; — no  disappointment  like  that  which 
crushes  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  soul ; — no  misfortune 
like  that  which  dooms  a  man  to  the  daily  falsifying  of 
his  own  nature, — to  the  hourly  conflict  between  the 
impulses  of  spiritual  life  and  the  exigencies  of  mere 
earthly  existence.  Among  the  varieties  of  character 
which  made  up  the  sum  of  our  little  world  at  West 
Point,  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  decide  whether  I 
should  be  classed  with  the  high-minded  or  with  the  base. 
Every  thing  by  turns  ; — at  one  time  an  unwearied  stu- 
dent, at  another  a  confirmed  idler, — now  full  of  lofty 
virtue,  and  again  yielding  to  every  temptation, — some- 


THE    MISSION    UNFULFILLED.  185 

times  braving  fatigue  and  danger  in  the  pursuit  of  duty, 
and  at  others  shrinking  from  the  slightest  trial  or  discom- 
fort with  cowardly  weakness  ; — it  was  difficult  to  say 
whether  I  merited  the  esteem  and  respect  or  the  contempt 
and  reproach  of  those  around  me.  No  one  understood 
me,  for  no  one  had  a  clue  to  the  labyrinthine  maze  of 
my  feelings.  They  knew  not  that  I  was  fighting  against 
myself,  and  that,  while  at  one  time  I  used  the  weapons 
from  a  spiritual  armory,  at  another  I  encased  myself  in 
the  base  panoply  of  earthly  passions. 

"  If  you  had  ever  known  the  guilt  and  misery  of  drug- 
ging  into  artificial  slumber  an  awakened  soul,  I  should 
have  no  difficulty  in  making  you  understand  my  suffer- 
ings. I  believed  then,  even  as  now,  that  I  had  been 
rescued  from  the  grasp  of  death,  and  set  apart,  as  an 
instrument  to  work  out  some  mysterious  purpose  of 
heaven ;  and  yet  I  was  earnestly  setting  myself  in  defi- 
ance of  the  declared  will  of  Providence  ;  I  was  endeavour- 
ing to  destroy  my  own  faith,  because  I  dared  not  brave 
the  consequences  of  obedience  to  its  dictates. 

"  Do  you  not  believe,  Ingoldsby,  that  each  of  us  is  sent 
into  the  world  to  fulfil  some  definite  mission  ?  I  hold  it 
to  be  most  religiously  true.  The  old  man,  who  sinks 
beneath  the  burden  of  fourscore  years,  has  worked  out 
his  mission  in  toil  and  weariness  ;  whether  he  has  ful- 
filled it  to  the  salvation  or  to  the  destruction  of  his  soul, 
remains  between  him  and  his  God, — but,  whatever  it  was, 
he  has  fulfilled  the  purpose  for  which  he  was  sent.  The 
fair  girl  who  blossomed  in  beauty  and  virtue,  only,  as  it 
seemed,  to  wring  the  hearts  of  those  who  saw  the  flower 
blighted  in  its  bloom,  has  fulfilled  her  task,  when  called 
16* 


186  THE    OPAL. 

to  lay  aside  the  weight  of  clay  ;  merciful  has  been  her 
destiny,  for  her  work  is  done  ere  the  soil  of  earth  could 
touch  her  spirit's  snowy  wings.  The  child  of  a  few 
brief  summers, — nay,  of  a  few  brief  hours, — he  who 
but  tasted  one  draught  from  life's  cup,  then  put  it 
aside  for  ever, — though  his  existence  was  but  as  the 
springing  of  a  wild  flower,  yet  has  he  finished  his 
task,  and  fulfilled  his  mission.  Oh  !  who  can  look  on 
that  delicate  little  frame, — who  can  think  of  the  myste- 
rious mechanism  of  that  brain  which  is  at  once  so  mate- 
rial and  so  spiritual, — who  can  watch  beside  the  couch 
of  that  pure  creature,  whose  complicated  machinery  of 
being  was  put  in  motion  but  for  death  to  stop  its  work- 
ings for  ever, — who  can  see  the  sudden  rending  of  that 
harp  of  a  thousand  strings,  and  not  believe  that  this 
single  vibration  of  its  chords  in  earthly  ears,  was  in 
obedience  to  the  hidden  purposes  of  Him  who  fashioned 
it  ?  and  who  can  doubt  that  in  the  '  better  land,'  it  will 
again  be  attuned  to  sweeter  and  more  unbroken  harmony  1 

"  But  what  must  death  be  to  him  who  knows  that  life 
has  been  only  a  struggle  against  noble  impulses?  to  him 
who  feels  that  the  whole  aim  of  his  existence  has  been 
to  '  quench  the  spirit?' 

"  It  was  but  a  short  time  before  the  completion  of  my 
course  of  education,  that  a  man,  whose  name  is  but 
another  word  for  apostolic  virtue,  was  appointed  chaplain 
at  West  Point.  To  you,  who  know  him  better  as  Bishop 

,  I  need  not  describe  him,  but  even  you  could  form 

little  idea  of  the  effect  of  his  presence  and  preaching  upon 
the  young  and  fiery  spirits  who  composed  our  little  band. 
We  beheld  a  man,  still  young,  with  a  form  delicate  almost 


THE    MISSION    UNFULFILLED.  187 

to  fragility, — a  face  beaming  with  noble  thought, — an 
eye  filled  with  inward  light,  and  a  brow  stamped  with 
the  signet  of  heaven.  We  heard  a  voice  deep-toned, 
rich,  and  in  its  vehement  bursts  of  eloquence  as  harmo- 
nious as  the  sweep  of  the  forest  wind,  or  the  diapason  of 
the  majestic  cataract.  We  listened  to  truths  which  were 
uttered  by  lips  that  seemed  '  touched  with  a  live  coal 
from  the  altar ;'  to  truths  which  came  to  our  minds 
clothed  in  the  language  of  clear  and  logical  reasoning, 
and  to  our  hearts  in  the  words  of  earnest  and  impas- 
sioned persuasion.  Few  among  us  remained  insensible 
to  his  influence.  For  my  own  part,  I  confess  that  this 
is  the  only  portion  of  my  life  upon  which  I  reflect  with' 
out  regret.  Where  good  impressions  were  so  general,  I 
was  not  ashamed  to  confess  them  ;  and  among  the  many 
who  then  openly  professed  their  faith,  my  name  was 
numbered. 

"  Still,  my  father  had  imbued  me  with  such  a  distrust 
of  my  own  powers,  that  I  blushed  to  be  regarded  in  the 
light  of  a  candidate  for  the  service  of  the  temple ;  and 
continued  to  guard  my  secret  wishes  as  carefully  as  if 
they  had  been  actual  sins,  while  I  was  gradually  be- 
coming stronger  in  my  resolves. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  finished  my  studies  with 
sufficient  honour  to  satisfy  even  my  father's  doubts  of 
my  capacity.  My  ambition  had  no  other  aim  than  that 
of  securing  his  consent  to  the  change  of  profession  on 
which  I  had  determined ;  and  I  laboured  unremittingly 
to  obtain  such  a  reputation  for  scholarship  as  would 
lead  him  to  think  favourably  of  my  purpose.  Whether 
he  suspected  my  design,  and  took  early  measures  to 


188  THE    OPAL. 

thwart  it,  I  know  not ;  certain  it  is  that  I  had  no  sooner 
left  West  Point  than  I  received  orders  to  proceed  with  a 
detachment  of  soldiers  to  a  military  post  on  the  frontier. 
I  had  already  determined  to  resign  my  commission,  but 
the  code  of  honour  forbids  such  a  renunciation  of  duty 
while  under  orders ;  and  without  subjecting  myself  to 
lasting  disgrace,  I  could  not  immediately  withdraw  from 
the  army.  There  seemed  to  me  something  base,  too,  in 
receiving  an  education  and  a  livelihood  at  the  hands  of 
my  country,  and  then  flinging  off  the  badge  of  devotion 
to  her  service  as  soon  as  I  had  enjoyed  all  the  benefits 
she  could  bestow.  The  world  again  came  in  to  silence 
my  inward  teachings,  and  again  I  yielded  to  her  false 
dictates. 

"  Of  my  long  and  dreary  sojourn  at  the  military  post 
of  — — ,  on  the  extreme  borders  of  civilization,  sur- 
rounded by  all  that  can  demoralize  and  unchristianize 
the  spirit,  I  have  told  you  in  years  gone  by.  You  know 
of  my  follfes  and  my  faults, — of  my  wasted  lime  and 
dissipated  talents  ;  and  of  that  dark  and  dreadful  period 
of  my  life,  when  passion  and  pride  and  revenge  led  me 
to  lift  my  hand  against  the  companion  of  my  duties. 
You  know  of  my  duel  with  poor  Charles  — —  ;  you 
know  that  my  soul  bears  the  stain  of  blood -guiltiness  ; 
— red — red  it  gleams  before  me  ever, — -and  even  so  will 
that  fearful  spot  glow  before  the  bar  of  judgment. 

"  During  my  whole  life  I  have  had  occasional  seasons 
of  repose,  like  the  lull  of  the  winds  in  the  midst  of  the 
tempest;  or  rather  like  the  torpor  which  comes  upon  an 
over-excited  brain, — an  insensibility  like  that  produced 
by  the  '  fat  weed  which  grows  on  Lethe's  shore.'  It 


THE    MISSION    UNFULFILLED.  189 

was  in  such  a  season,  when  the  vultures  of  remorse 
seemed  to  have  ceased  their  fearful  banquet,  and  when 
that  quiet  had  come  upon  me,  which  seemed  to  me  to 
proclaim  '  Ephraim  is  turned  to  his  idols,  let  him 
alone,' — it  was  at  such  a  time  that  I  met  with  her  who 
is  now  my  wife.  Fascinated  by  her  beauty  and  her 
womanliness,  I  yielded  myself  up  to  the  sweet  intoxica- 
tion, and  though  I  knew  that  I  was  forging  new  fetters 
upon  my  will  and  upon  my  conscience,  I  yet  wooed  and 
won  my  bride.  My  reputation  for  military  prowess 
was  a  subject  of  pride  and  pleasure  to  her  whom  I  now 
loved  more  than  life,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  disturb  her 
early  moments  of  happiness  by  resigning  those  honours 
which  she  so  much  prized.  Beside,  my  conscience  was 
becoming  callous  and  obdurate.  The  keenness  of  my 
self-reproach  had  ceased,  and  I  could  silence  my  busy 
thoughts  or  forget  them  amid  the  pleasures  of  social 
excitement. 

"  But  now  I  am  fully  and  entirely  awakened  to  the 
hopelessness  of  my  condition.  One  after  another  my 
children  have  been  taken  from  me  in  infancy  and  laid 
in  the  silent  grave,  an  atonement  for  their  father's  sin. 
As  I  stood  beside  the  coffin  of  my  last  and  loveliest,  I 
felt  the  same  inward  voice  that  had  spoken  to  me  in  my 
boyhood.  It  told  me  that  my  child  had  finished  its  task, 
and  that  its  mission  had  been  to  awaken  in  its  father's 
bosom  that  remorse  which  now  can  never  slumber.  I 
now  find  no  sympathy  and  no  solace.  My  wife  regards 
me  with  wonder  and  sometimes  with  awe,  as  if  she 
feared  for  my  reason  ; — she  cannot  comprehend  my 
nature.  My  ideas  of  a  future  life  are  gloomy  and  ter- 


190  THE    OPAL. 

rific.  I  have  struggled  so  long  against  the  instincts  of 
the  soul, — I  have  fought  so  determinedly  against  the 
impulses  of  a  higher  nature, — I  have  despised  so  often 
the  warnings  of  my  guardian  spirit, — I  have  plunged  so 
deeply  in  error,  in  my  vain  efforts  to  escape  the  dog- 
gings  of  my  inexorable  conscience,  that  now  I  am  given 
over  to  the  tormentors,  and  there  is  no  hope,  no  peace 
for  me. 

"  Yet  do  not  suppose  that  the  world  knows  of  this 
suffering.  The  misfortunes  which  come  from  external 
circumstances  may  trace  their  characters  on  the  cheek 
and  brow ;  but  it  is  the  inner  man  which  suffers  from 
these  conflicts  of  the  soul.  I  am  gray  and  worn  in 
heart,  while  my  step  is  as  firm,  my  bearing  as  soldier- 
like, ay,  and  my  arm  as  strong  to  do  and  dare,  as  if 
'  my  bosom's  lord  sate  lightly  on  its  throne.'  After 
years  of  inaction  and  idleness,  I  am  now  ordered  to 
Florida.  I  am  now  but  a  puppet  in  the  hands  of  others. 
I  have  no  hope,  and  scarce  a  wish  for  any  thing  else  ; 
my  destiny  is  now  marked  out ;  my  path  is  shown  by 
the  clouds  and  darkness  that  overshadow  it.  Yet  I  have 
nothing  to  blame  save  my  own  weakness.  I  lacked 
moral  courage,  and  I  must  now  pay  the  awful  penalty  of 
spiritual  vacillation.  Alas  !  alas !  we  hew  out  for  our- 
selves broken  cisterns,  and  then  wonder  that  we  find  no 
water  to  cool  our  fevered  lips.  We  follow  some  by- 
path across  the  desert,  and  when  we  reach  no  cooling 
shade,  we  lie  down  beside  the  treacherous  mirage,  and 
fancy  ourselves  at  rest. 

"  Let  no  one  ever  hope  to  find  peace  who  begins  life  by 
being  false  to  himself.    Let  no  one  check  his  soul's  high 


THE    MISSION    UNFULFILLED.  191 

impulses,  and  crush  his  own  instincts  in  deference  to  the 
world's  vain  will.  I  tell  you,  Ingoldsby,  the  homage  of 
a  universe  would  never  compensate  for  the  loss  of  one 
noble  thought  or  one  good  deed.  I  am  one  whom  the 
world  calls  happy, — fame,  military  fame, — the  laurel 
dipped  in  blood, — is  mine, — wealth  has  been  lavished 
upon  me, — my  affections  have  been  satisfied  in  the 
attainment  of  their  object, — and  to  outward  view  my  lot 
has  been  one  of  singular  good-fortune.  But  have  not 
all  these  things  been  given  to  show  me  the  vanity  of 
earthly  possessions  when  the  heart  is  at  war  with  itself? 
Has  not  my  cup  been  filled  with  blessings  only  to  ren- 
der more  bitter  the  drop  of  wormwood  in  the  bottom  of 
the  chalice  ?  Every  flower  which  has  decked  my  path 
has  given  out  poison  in  its  perfume; — upon  the  portal  of 
my  home  seems  inscribed  the  awful  '  Mene — mene  tekel 
upharsin' — and  upon  my  grave  might  be  traced,  with  a 
pen  of  iron,  the  single  word  '  Miserrimus.' 

"  You  will,  perhaps,  look  on  all  this  as  the  workings  of 
a  diseased  imagination.  I  would  it  were  so  !  but  my 
sufferings  during  the  past  fifteen  years  are  no  fancied 
ills.  The  heaviest  evils  that  can  befall  humanity, — the 
utter  desolation  of  every  earthly  joy, — the  destruction  of 
every  trace  of  this  world's  happiness, — the  most  abject 
and  unbroken  misery  would  be  welcomed,  if  they  would 
but  bring  me  annihilation  of  my  mighty  woe.  All  the 
catalogue  of  human  ills  can  number  nothing  so  wither- 
ing to  the  soul  as  the  consciousness  of  neglected  duties. 
When  death  comes  to  me, — whether  he  watches  beside 
my  couch  of  pain,  or  prepares  for  me  a  soldier's  last 
bed  amid  the  everglades  of  Florida, — he  can  inflict  no 


192  THE    OPAL. 

pang  so  terrible  as  the  consciousness  of  having  borne 
through  life  the  weight  of  an  unfulfilled  mission.'1'' 

On  the  back  of  the  foregoing  manuscript  was  en- 
dorsed, in  the  handwriting  of  Mr.  Ingoldsby,  the  follow- 
ing words  : 

"  Poor  Gordon  !  what  a  wreck  was  here  !  Six  months 
after  the  date  of  this  most  singular  developement  of 
diseased  sensibility,  he  was  killed  by  a  random  shot, 
and  literally  found  a  soldier's  grave  amid  the  ever- 
glades of  Florida." 


THE  PRAYER  OF  A  BEREAVED  MOTHER.* 


GOD  !  hear  my  prayer — for  thou  alone  wilt  hear ! 

From  man  I  turn  despairing,  and  bereft 
Of  all  the  treasures  that  my  soul  holds  dear : 

Not  one,  not  one  of  my  young  darlings  left ! 
At  morn  I  miss  them,  when,  from  weary  sleep 

Waking,  I  strive  the  solemn  void  to  fill 
With  their  sweet  faces ;  bitterly  I  weep, 

Weep,  weep  and  wonder  if  they  love  me  still. 

At  eve  I  miss  them,  when  the  twilight  throws 

Its  long,  broad  shadows  o'er  the  quiet  earth  ; 
How,  tired  of  play,  they  murmured  for  repose 

And  hushed  awhile  their  free,  melodious  mirth ! 
Oh,  what  a  thrill  of  pure  delight  was  mine, 

When  their  warm  kisses  drank  my  gushing  tears, 
When  for  a  moment  beams  of  joy  would  shine 

Through  the  dark  track  of  desolated  years. 

*  In  this  poem,  I  have  attempted — alas,  how  feebly  ! — to  express  the 
sorrow  of  a  mother  after  being  compelled,  by  the  cruel  rules  regu- 
lating cases  of  divorce,  to  yield  the  custody  of  her  children.  No 
matter  whether  she  be  guilty  or  innocent,  the  common-law,  outraging 
nature,  inflicts  upon  a  woman  the  sharpest  punishment  she  can  be 
made  to  feel.  When  will  legislators  learn  to  be  humane  ?  When 
will  just  statutes  do  away  with  unjust  precedents  ? 

17 


194  THE    OPAL. 

Thou  know'st  my  innocence,  my  wrongs,  my  pain. 

The  cruel  wrongs  I,  unrepining,  bore ; 
Thou  know'st  this  bosom  is  as  free  from  stain 

As  theirs  whose  loss  in  anguish  I  deplore. 
I  cannot  yield  them — are  they  not  mine  own  ] 

Mine,  from  the  hour  they  drew  their  earliest  breath. 
In  health,  in  sickness  mine,  and  mine  alone — 

Mine,  till,  oh  God  !  thou  mak'st  them  thine  in  death. 

My  heart,  my  heart  will  break ;  I  cannot  still 

This  throbbing  grief,  this  life-consuming  fire — 
I  bow  submissive  to  thy  mighty  will ; 

And  yet,  I  pray  thee,  grant  my  soul's  desire  ! 
Let  me  behold  them,  let  me  once  more  hear 

Their  gentle  voices,  or  but  one  faint  sigh, 
Muttered  in  fondness,  undisturbed  by  fear, 

And  I  will  fold  them  in  my  arms  and  die. 


A  MORNING  AT  ROME. 

BY  JAMES  ALDRICH. 

COMING  out  one  morning  in  the  month  of  January  last, 
from  the  cafe  Bon  Gout,  in  the  Piazza  Spagna,  which 
is  frequented  by  all  strangers  at  Rome  who  are  fond  of 
a  good  breakfast,  I  stood  by  the  door,  reflecting  what 
should  be  my  employment  for  the  day.  The  atmo- 
sphere was  delicious  ;  the  air  warm  and  balmy,  and  the 
pleasant  sunshine  full  of  that  life  and  health-giving 
principle  which  it  seems  nowhere  to  possess  in  so  great 
a  degree  as  in  Italy. 

On  the  broad  marble  steps  leading  up  to  the  church 
of  the  Trinita  cTmonti,  on  the  Pincian  Hill,  a  party  of 
Neapolitan  gipsies,  or  brigands  as  they  are  termed, 
dressed  in  their  peculiar  costume,  with  brown  cloaks  of 
a  coarse  stuff,  and  high  steeple-crowned  hats,  fantas- 
tically decorated  with  ribands  and  feathers,  were  basking 
idly  in  the  sun.  Some  of  them  were  asleep,  others  were 
eating  their  scanty  breakfast.  I  had  observed  them 
lying  about  in  the  same  place  every  day  that  I  had  been 
at  Rome.  How  they  subsisted,  having  no  visible  means 


196  THE    OPAL. 

of  support,  was  a  problem  I  could  never  solve,  nor, 
indeed,  could  I  find  any  one  able  to  solve  it  for  me. 
Sometimes,  on  passing  close  by  the  group,  one  of  the 
boys,  without  moving  from  his  reclined  position,  would 
address  me  with  the  supplication  universal  in  Italy, 
Carita  !  per  V amour  di  Dios,  while,  perhaps,  a  few  of 
the  party  would  look  up  at  me  with  an  expression  of 
careless  indifference. 

Before  me,  standing  beside  the  fountain  which  ever 
enlivens  the  Piazza  with  its  musical  murmurs,  stood  a 
crazy-looking  old  carriage,  somewhat  in  the  form  of  a 
Roman  chariot ;  this  was  a  public  vehicle ;  a  hackney 
coach  ;  attached  to  it  were  too  sorry-looking  horses, 
with  their  heads  hanging  on  a  level  with  their  knees, 
apparently  ruminating  over  the  fallen  greatness  which 
surrounded  them.  On  the  box  sat  Antonio  the  coach- 
man,— whose  acquaintance  I  had  previously  made, — fast 
asleep :  the  reins  and  whip  had  fallen  from  his  hands. 

Having  determined  in  what  manner  to  spend  the 
morning,  I  went  up  to  Antonio,  aroused  him  from  his 
slumber,  and,  bargaining  with  him  "  by  the  hour," 
directed  him  to  drive  to  the  Coliseum  by  way  of  the 
Foro  Romano.  We  passed  slowly  through  the  desolate 
Via  Sacra,  with  the  ruins  of  colossal  temples  on  either 
side, — by  the  Arch  of  Titus,  still  in  a  tolerable  state  of 
preservation, — by  the  Palatine  Hill,  once  covered  with 
the  palace  of  the  Caesars,  but  of  which  only  the  moulder- 
ing foundation  walls  remain  ;  and  lastly,  by  the  noble 
Arch  of  Constantine,  still  covered  with  fine  bas  reliefs, 
being  one  of  the  best  preserved  and  most  interesting  of 
the  ruins  of  antiquity. 


A    MORNING    AT    ROME.  197 

Following  the  grass-grown  road,  Antonio  drove  close 
up  to  the  principal  entrance  to  the  Coliseum,  where  a 
guide  was  ready  to  conduct  me  through  that  wondrous 
labyrinth  of  crumbling  walls  and  stupendous  arches. 

The  undisturbed  silence  and  solitude  in  which  that 
vast  edifice  reposes,  with  stupendous  masses  of  moulder- 
ing ruins  on  one  side,  and  the  level  waste  Campagna, 
overgrown  like  a  churchyard  with  rank  grass  and 
weeds,  stretching  far  away  on  the  other,  adds  greatly  to 
the  feeling  of  melancholy  experienced  on  beholding  it. 
But  to  feel  the  vastness  and  solitude  of  the  Coliseum, 
as  I  afterwards  learned,  one  must  visit  it  at  night.  The 
effect  is  greatly  heightened  by  moonlight,  when  one  half 
of  the  ruin  reposes  in  softened  radiance,  and  the  other 
rests  in  full  deep  shadow. 

Forth  at  the  silent  midnight  hour, 
By  ruined  temple,  arch,  and  tower, 
I  walk  to  feel  their  soothing  power. 

The  Coliseum  vast  and  lone 
Invites  me ;  on  some  fallen  stone 
I  sit  and  list  the  wind's  low  moan. 

Through  rifted  walls  the  moonlight  streams 
Against  dark  shadows,  and  there  seems 
An  echo  from  the  land  of  dreams. 

Dim  spectres  then  encompass  me — • 
I  know  not  rightly  if  they  be 
Great  shadows  of  Eternity  [ 
17* 


198  THE    OPAL. 

Or  beings  of  the  mind's  dark  wave — 

Whatever  meaning  they  may  have, 

They  bring  me  strange  thoughts  of  the  grave. 

But  for  a  moment  these  remain, 
Then  on  the  river  of  my  brain 
There  glides  a  sweet  celestial  train 

Of  spotless  seraphs,  clothed  in  white, 
On  outspread  pinions,  golden  bright, 
With  glitt'ring  plumage  all  bedight. 

Down  floating  an  enchanted  stream, 
Like  one  who  dreams  he's  in  a  dream, 
I  start,  as  on  a  sudden  gleam 

All  shadows  from  before  me  flee, 
And  with  clear  eye  entranced  I  see 
The  azure  of  Eternity  ! 

But  to  return  to  the  more  sober  realities  of  prose  :  it 
were  impossible  to  convey  to  the  reader's  mind  an  idea 
of  the  soothing  influences  produced  by  this  immense 
relic  contemplated  alone  and  by  moonlight,  when  the 
silence  of  night  is  unbroken  by  the  least  discordant 
sound.  At  such  an  hour  one  wanders  under  its  stupen- 
dous arches  as  in  a  dream  ;  the  things  of  the  day  are 
for  the  time  forgotten,  and  only  the  shadows  of  the  past 
are  present. 

At  the  dedication  of  the  Coliseum  by  Titus,  the 
games  lasted  one  hundred  days,  during  which  several 
thousand  gladiators  and  more  than  five  thousand  wild 


A    MOBBING    AT   ROME.  199 

beasts  were  killed.  The  arena  is  oval  in  form  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  strong  wall,  erected  to  prevent  the  infu- 
riated animals  from  rushing  on  the  spectators.  A  long, 
dark,  walled  passage,  through  which  the  gladiators  and 
beasts  entered  the  arena,  is  preserved  unbroken  to  the 
present  day.  Independent  of  the  platform  called  podium, 
on  which  were  seats  for  the  emperor  and  his  family, 
and  the  vestal  virgins,  there  were  one  hundred  and  seven 
thousand  seats  for  spectators,  each  one  separated  from 
others,  and  numbered.  Several  of  the  largest  palaces 
of  modern  Rome  were  built  of  materials  taken  from  the 
Coliseum ;  but  the  like  desecration  of  this  and  other 
ancient  edifices  has  long  since  been  prohibited.  In  the 
middle  of  the  last  century,  fourteen  chapels,  with  the 
mysteries  of  the  passion  of  our  Saviour,  were  built  in 
the  arena,  and  in  these  the  ceremony  of  the  via  crucis 
takes  place  every  Friday.  Many  of  the  early  Christian 
martyrs  suffered  in  the  arena,  where  they  were  sen- 
tenced to  be  devoured  by  wild  beasts. 

After  lingering  an  hour  in  the  Coliseum,  I  directed 
Antonio  to  drive  to  the  Protestant  cemetery — the  most 
beautiful,  and,  to  the  stranger,  the  most  melancholy 
spot  in  the  vicinity  of  Rome.  The  cemetery  is  divided 
by  a  broad  public  road,  which  winds  along  the  base  of 
a  gentle  declivity ;  that  part  of  it  which  is  on  the  plain, 
is  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  a  deep  moat ;  on  the 
other  side  is  the  lofty  pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius.  When 
Antonio  had  found  the  keeper,  he  came  and  opened  the 
gate  of  a  little  bridge  which  spans  the  moat,  and  I 
walked  into  the  sacred  enclosure;  it  was  the  20th  of 
January,  yet  the  graves  and  the  spaces  between  them, 


200  THE    OPAL. 

were  so  thickly  covered  with  violets  and  daisies,  it  was 
impossible  to  make  a  step  without  crushing  some  of 
them.  There  was  the  little  simple  headstone  at  the 
grave  of  Keats,  with  this  inscription,  which  he  requested 
might  alone  mark  his  tomb  : 

"  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water." 

On  a  small  marble  headstone,  near  the  pyramid,  1 
read  the  following  inscription  : 

"  William,  son  of  Percy  Bysche  Shelley  and  Mary 
Wollstoncraft." 

Shelley  never  outlived  the  grief  occasioned  by  the 
death  of  that  beloved  child.  The  following  beautiful 
fragment  on  the  melancholy  event  was  published  after 
his  death  : 

"  My  lost  William,  thou  in  whom 
Some  bright  spirit  lived,  and  did 

That  decaying  robe  consume 
Which  its  lustre  faintly  hid, 

Here  its  ashes  find  a  tomb ; 
But  beneath  this  pyramid 

Thou  art  not — if  a  thing  divine 

Like  thee  can  die,  thy  funeral  shrine 

la  thy  mother's  grief  and  mine. 

"  Where  art  thou,  my  gentle  child  ? 

Let  me  think  thy  spirit  feeds, 
Within  its  life  intense  and  mild, 

The  love  of  living  leaves  and  weeds, 
Among  these  tombs  and  ruins  wild  ; — 

Let  me  think  that  through  low  seeds 
Of  the  sweet  flowers  and  sunny  grass, 
Into  their  hues  and  scents  may  pass 
A  portion " 


A    MORNING    AT    BOMB.  201 

Perhaps  no  great  man's  character  was  ever  so  gene- 
rally misunderstood  as  Shelley's.  "  Of  all  men,"  says 
Leigh  Hunt,  who  knew  him  well,  "  he  was  the  most 
misconstrued,  in  its  being  supposed  that  he  had  no  reli- 
gion. In  more  than  one  sense  of  the  word  he  was  all 
religion — all  for  a  sense  of  duty  and  of  divineness,  only 
he  would  have  enlarged  the  sphere  of  the  dutiful.  So 
far  from  supposing  that  this  '  universal  frame  was  with- 
out a  mind,'  he  was  much  inclined,  with  the  pious  Bishop 
Berkley,  to  suppose  it  all  mind." 

The  Protestant  cemetery  is  devoted  to  the  burial  of 
strangers  who  die  at  Rome  ;  and  no  place  in  the  world 
urges  upon  the  mind  such  melancholy  reflections,  such 
silent  and  profitable  admonitions  of  the  vanity  of  human 
life,  and  human  ambition.  On  that  beautiful  plain,  and 
on  the  side  of  that  verdant  hill,  a  host  of  young  and  ardent 
aspirants  for  fame  "  have  pitched  in  heaven's  smile  their 
camp  of  death  ;"  poets,  painters,  and  sculptors,  "  the 
inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown,"  there  repose,  who  were 
cut  off  in  the  morning  of  existence,  ere  the  prize  for 
which  they  were  toiling  was  won  ;  and  many  who  in 
life  mourned  over  broken  affections,  whose  hearts  were 
living  sepulchres,  there  sleep,  un wrecked  by  dreams, 
beneath  a  green  coverlet,  prankt  with  wild  violets  and 
daisies. 


"  Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  paradise, 

The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness ; 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains  rise, 
And  flowering  weeds  and  fragrant  copses  dress 


202  THE    OPAL. 

The  bones  of  desolation's  nakedness, 
Pass,  till  the  spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 

Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access, 

Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead, 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread." 

Satisfied  with  my  morning's  ramble,  and  not  desiring 
to  have  my  feelings  disturbed  by  new  scenes,  I  bade 
Antonio  return  to  the  Piazza  Spagna. 


• 


THE  DESERTED  WIFE. 

BY  SAMUEL  D.  PATTERSON. 

• 

WHY  tarries  he  so  long1,  while  she — that  one, 

So  fond  and  true,  so  beautiful  and  bright — 
Now  sits  in  cheerless  watchfulness  alone, 

Waiting  his  coining  through  the  tedious  night  1 
And  as  the  chimes  upon  the  distant  bell, 

Mark  mournfully  and  sad  his  lingering  stay, 
Each  echoing  peal  seems  but  the  gloomy  knell 

Of  joys  departed,  pleasures  passed  away. 

He  was  her  heart's  first  choice.     On  him  was  poured 

The  full,  rich  treasure  of  her  garnered  love — 
And  when  the  storm-clouds  of  affliction  lowered 

And  burst  in  fury  round  him,  he  could  prove 
In  her  the  faithfulness,  nor  change,  nor  chill 

Might  even  weaken — that  devotion  high, 
Which  in  all  trials  marks  the  woman  still, 

Glowed  in  her  breast  with  all  its  fervency. 

But  he  was  all  unworthy.     From  her  side, 

Error  allured  and  evil  thoughts  beguiled — 
Love,  reason,  virtue,  lost  their  power  to  guide, 

For  passion  beckoned,  and  the  tempter  smiled. 
And  still  his  path  is  downward — but  that  love, 

Which,  in  its  fulness,  pardons  all  the  past, 
Implores  with  tears  the  Guardian  Power  above, 

To  bring  the  wanderer  safely  home  at  last. 


THE  INTRIGUE,  THE  ASSASSINATION,  AND 
THE  PUNISHMENT. 


EVENHANDED  JUSTICE  IN  SPAIN A  MILITARY  EXECUTION  5    PROM 

NOTES  AND  OBSERVANCES  ON  THE  SPOT. 


B  T    N.    C  II  E  E  V  E  Jl,     M.I). 

Ved  que  historia, 

Que  a  entrambos  en  un  punto,  o  cxtmno  caso ! 
Los  mala,  los  encubre,  y  resucita 
Una  espada,  un  sepulchre,  una  memoria. 

CERVANTES. 

IN  the  neighbourhood  of  the  city  of  Malaga,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Guadal-Medina,  the  traveller  may  observe, 
among  other  pleasant  habitations,  a  beautiful  hacienda, 
or  country-seat,  which  attracts  a  melancholy  notice, 
when  some  of  the  associations  connected  with  it  are 
revealed.  Amidst  the  orange  groves  and  olive  orchards 
of  that  lovely  climate,  many  a  place  has  its  story  of 
intrigue  and  murder,  which  the  beauty  of  the  region 
would  belie.  This  romantic  spot  was  the  dwelling  of  a 
young  lawyer,  amiable  in  his  deportment,  affable  in 
society,  and  enjoying  a  reputation  superior  to  all  sus- 


JUSTICE    IN    SPAIN.  205 

picion  of  crime.  I  shall  not  describe  his  whole  name, 
because  the  transactions  to  which  I  refer,  are  yet  com- 
paratively recent,  and  it  is  enough  for  my  purpose  to 
designate  him  as  Don  Juan.  On  a  bright  and  glorious 
day  while  I  was  in  Malaga,  I  saw  him  publicly  shot,  in 
the  presence  of  ten  thousand  spectators,  in  an  open 
space  on  the  banks  of  the  Guadal-Medina,  on  the  city 
side,  where  the  eye  could  rest  directly  on  his  beautiful 
residence  in  full  view  beyond. 

One  of  Don  Juan's  acquaintance  and  friends  in  the 
city  was  the  husband  of  a  lovely  wife,  possessed  of  some 
property  in  her  own  right.  Between  this  woman  and 
Don  Juan  there  was  an  intimacy,  which,  but  for  the 
dreadful  tragedy  I  am  going  to  relate,  might  never  have 
worn  the  appearance  of  guilt,  but  only  of  friendship. 
Her  husband,  Don  Jose,  was  of  a  frank,  unsuspicious, 
open-hearted  nature,  and  both  were  young.  Whether 
the  guilt  of  the  crime  resting  on  her  and  Don  Juan  were 
greater  on  her  side  or  his,  it  is  difficult  to  say,  or  who 
was  the  tempter  to  the  deed  of  blood,  which  resulted  in 
her  misery  and  his  destruction. 

In  a  small  village  called  Priego,  a  few  leagues  from 
Malaga,  there  lived  a  man  named  Jose  de  la  Rosa,  by 
profession  a  common  day-labourer,  married,  and  the 
father  of  six  children.  He  had,  as  the  Spaniards  say, 
ten  murders  on  his  soul — tcnia  diez  muertes — being 
one  of  those  mercenary  assassins,  whose  most  profitable 
trade,  in  such  a  country  as  Spain,  is  blood,  and  in  whom 
undiscovered  crime  had  effectually  seared  his  conscience. 
As  he  appeared  at  the  execution  in  the  square  in  Malaga, 
he  was  of  an  elevated  stature,  regular  features,  and 
18 


206  THE    OPAL. 

strongly  knit,  powerful  frame,  denoting  immense  vigour 
and  physical  strength.  His  face  was  of  a  citron  colour, 
his  eyes  black,  large,  and  very  wide  apart,  and  the 
whole  expression  of  his  countenance  dark  and  fearful  in 
the  highest  degree.  If  you  had  met  him  of  an  evening 
in  the  narrow  streets  of  Malaga,  you  would  have  felt 
anxious  till  you  found  yourself  in  safety  at  your  own 
door. 

This  man  might  have  been  seen  one  night  in  the 
beautiful  month  of  October,  when  the  grape-harvest  had 
closed,  stepping  out  from  Don  Juan's  residence,  muffled 
in  a  rough  Spanish  capa,  and  making  his  way  from  the 
river  towards  the  mountains.  The  price  at  which  Don 
Juan  had  secured  his  services  was  never  known,  but  he 
had  promised  him  perfect  security,  and  a  personal  par- 
ticipation in  the  crime,  by  his  own  presence,  to  make  all 
sure,  when  he  should  meet  his  victim.  The  arrange- 
ment was  completed,  and  on  a  certain  night  when 
Don  Juan  knew  the  intended  movements  of  his  friend, 
this  murderer  was  to  meet  him  across  the  bridge  in 
the  city,  and  to  be  guided  by  him  till,  in  sight  of  his 
object,  he  might  post  himself,  without  mistake,  for  the 
assassination. 

It  was  half  past  eleven  on  the  night  of  the  30th,  as 
Don  Jose,  accompanied  by  a  watchman,  was  returning 
unsuspectingly  to  his  home  in  the  city  from  an  evening 
visit  at  the  house  of  a  friend.  They  had  arrived  at  the 
entrance  to  one  of  the  dark  and  narrow  streets,  with 
which  Malaga  abounds.  Here  Don  Juan  and  La  Rosa 
had  posted  themselves,  expecting  to  meet  Don  Jose,  and 
awaiting  his  coming.  At  the  farther  corner  of  the  street 


JUSTICE    IN   SPAIN.  207 

they  had  both  stopped,  and  as  Don  Juan  saw  his  victim 
advancing  with  the  watchman,  he  hastily  said  to  La 
Rosa,  Ahi  viene  !  ahi  viene  !  there  he  comes  !  there  he 
comes  !  and  then  fled  swiftly  to  his  own  house,  not  re- 
maining to  see  the  end  of  the  murder,  but  as  quick  as 
possible  placing  himself  quietly  in  bed.  Before  the 
night  finished  he  was  taken  thence  by  armed  soldiers, 
for  his  execution  ! 

Don  Jose  and  the  watchman,  continuing  their  way  up 
the  street,  were  met  suddenly  by  a  tall  athletic  man  in 
the  common  garb  of  a  paisano  or  rustic,  muffled  in  a 
cloak.  As  he  came  up  with  Don  Jose,  neither  he  nor 
the  watchman  being  in  the  least  on  their  guard,  the  mur- 
derer drew  forth  a  savage  knife  concealed  beneath  his 
capa,  and  plunged  it  with  such  tremendous  violence  into 
the  breast  of  the  unfortunate  young  man,  as  to  make  a 
wound  six  and  a  half  inches  deep,  completely  dividing 
the  heart.  The  blood  of  the  poor  victim,  impelled  by 
the  spasmodic  contractions  of  the  heart,  spouted  into  the 
air,  and  sprinkled  to  a  considerable  height  the  walls  of 
the  street.  Thousands  of  horror-stricken  spectators 
were  gathered  the  next  morning  to  gaze  upon  the  stains. 
On  receiving  the  dreadful  stab,  the  murdered  man 
breathed  forth  one  sad  cry,  the  gurgling  rather  of  his 
death-agony,  and  fell  lifeless. 

La  Rosa,  having  finished  the  murder,  instantly  took 
to  flight.  He  might  have  killed  the  watchman,  had  he 
chosen,  and  then  robbed  his  victim,  who  had  upon  his 
person  a  watch  and  chain  of  much  value  ;  and  the  fact 
that  no  attempt  of  this  kind  was  made,  indicated,  by 


208  THE    OPAL. 

itself,  a  concealed  interest  and  agent  in  the  murder. 
The  watchman,  though  thrown  for  a  moment  from  his 
guard,  by  the  horrible  catastrophe  which  passed  before 
him  with  such  electric  rapidity,  at  once  gave  chase  to 
the  murderer,  who,  in  making  his  escape,  intended  to 
have  taken  a  street  close  at  hand,  by  which  he  might 
easily  have  effected  it.  This  was  the  Calle  de  las  siete 
revueltas,  the  Street  of  the  Seven  Turns,  a  literal  defini- 
tion of  its  geography,  so  that  it  would  have  been  exceed- 
ingly favourable  for  La  Rosa's  purpose;  but,  being  hotly 
pursued  by  the  watchman,  he  missed  his  aim,  and  rushed 
down  a  Calle-juela  sin  salida,  a  narrow  lane  without  an 
outlet,  and  a  very  short  one  too,  at  the  end  of  which  he 
was  brought  to  a  dead  halt  by  the  huge  impenetrable 
walls  of  high  buildings  on  three  sides  of  him,  leaving  no 
possible  way  of  retreat  but  that  by  which  he  had  entered. 
Here  he  was  brought  to  bay,  like  a  raging  bull ;  and  being 
knocked  down  and  slightly  wounded  by  the  lance  of  the 
watchman  or  sereno,  he  was,  with  other  assistance,  at 
length  secured,  and  carried  immediately  before  the  cap- 
tain-general. 

I  have  mentioned  the  Spanish  appellation  of  the  watch- 
man, sereno  ;  it  is  interesting  to  state  that  the  serenos  or 
watchmen  in  the  south  of  Spain,  probably  have  taken 
their  name  from  the  loveliness  of  the  climate.  It  is  not 
unlikely  that  the  term  came  to  be  applied  to  them  from 
the  fact,  that  in  crying  the  hour  and  the  state  of  the  wea- 
ther as  they  do,  the  climate  is  so  delightfully  mild  and 
agreeable,  that  they  can  generally  say  sereno,  fair,  serene. 
The  sound  of  their  fine  melodious  voices,  heard  in  the 


JUSTICE    IN   SPAIN.  209 

deep  stillness  of  midnight,  ringing  through  the  clear 
crystal  atmosphere  of  Andalusia,  has  an  indescribably 
serene,  romantic,  and  thrilling  effect. 

Ave  Maria  purissima ! 
Las  doce-e  y  media-a, 
Y  sereno-o ! 

They  cry  the  hour,  with  a  prolonged  and  musical  repe- 
tition of  the  syllables,  preceded  by  the  name  of  the  Holy 
Virgin,  and  almost  always  you  hear  the  sereno-o,  at  the 
close,  to  tell  the  sleepers  how  quiet  and  beautiful  are  the 
heavens  above  them.  Too  frequently,  beneath  all  this 
quiet  and  beauty,  deeds  of  violence  and  blood  are  trans- 
acted, fitter  for  the  murky  atmosphere  of  the  Valley  of 
the  Shadow  of  Death. 

At  the  time  of  the  event  I  am  relating,  the  city  of 
Malaga,  on  account  of  the  disturbed  state  of  the  country, 
had  been  put  under  martial  law.  This  is  the  reason 
why  justice,  in  most  cases  so  dilatory,  was  in  this  case 
inflicted  with  such  rapid  and  terrible  severity.  The  war 
with  Don  Carlos  had  not  yet  been  concluded,  and  the 
captain-general  of  the  kingdom  of  Granada,  who 
usually  lives  at  that  city,  was  residing  in  Malaga. 
These  circumstances  gave  me  an  opportunity  to  see 
some  phases  of  Spanish  life,  which  I  could  not  otherwise 
have  witnessed,  and  also,  as  my  readers  will  find, 
brought  before  me  in  detail  the  course  of  a  capital  trial 
before  a  military  tribunal.  The  captain-general  took 
it  all  into  his  own  hands,  and  proceeded  with  an  unre» 
18* 


210  THE    OPAL. 

lenting  energy,  rapidity,  and  sternness,  completely  over- 
whelming. 

It  was  about  midnight  when  the  watchmen  hurried 
their  captive  before  him.  The  efforts  of  the  murderer 
having  been  noticed  in  rubbing  his  hands  to  efface  from 
them  the  bloody  .vestiges  of  his  crime,  the  captain- 
general  ordered  them  to  be  bound  between  two  tablets 
of  wood.  He  also  caused  to  be  gathered  up  the  hat,  the 
cloak,  and  the  faja,  or  sash,  of  the  assassin,  which  he 
had  thrown  off  at  different  points  during  the  close  pur- 
suit of  the  watchmen,  and  also  the  knife  with  which  the 
fatal  blow  had  been  given,  and  which  was  found  near 
by  the  yet  palpitating  body.  The  captain-general  also 
immediately  nominated  an  officer  to  act  as  attorney- 
general  in  the  case,  on  the  part  of  the  government,  and 
then  proceeded  to  the  business  of  taking  the  depositions. 
There  was  no  possibility  of  denying  the  fact,  and  con- 
sequently La  Rosa  confessed  the  crime ;  and  seeing 
himself  utterly  lost,  if  alone,  designated  as  his  accom- 
plice the  young  lawyer  Don  Juan. 

Here  commenced  a  drama  of  the  judgment,  like  to 
the  horrible  solemnity  of  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  any  counterpart  in  the  judicial  proceedings  of  any 
other  country.  In  the  dead  of  night  a  body  of  men 
rapidly  and  silently  surrounded  the  city  residence  of 
Don  Juan,  his  father's  house,  and  took  him  from  his 
bed,  where  he  had  scarcely  had  time  to  close  his  eyes, 
even  if  his  conscience  would  have  let  him,  and  hurried 
him  before  the  captain-general,  to  confront  his  despe- 
rate accuser.  La  Rosa  entered  into  the  most  minute 


JUSTICE    IN    SPAIN.  211 

details  of  the  premeditation  of  the  murder,  with  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  diabolical  transaction,  affirming 
that  Don  Juan  had  tempted,  persuaded,  and  induced  him 
to  commit  the  crime,  having,  for  this  purpose,  offered 
and  delivered  to  him  certain  sums  of  money.  What 
could  Don  Juan  answer  ?  The  unexpected  discovery 
and  capture  of  the  hired  murderer,  in  the  very  perpetra- 
tion of  the  crime,  and  the  suddenness  with  which  the 
bolt  of  justice  had  fallen,  were  overwhelming  ;  neverthe- 
less, he  might  hope  to  escape.  He  maintained  the  utter 
calumny  of  the  accusation.  "  Prove  your  charge ! 
Am  I  to  be  condemned  on  the  testimony  of  a  common 
assassin?  I  defy  the  proof.  It  is  a  murderous  false- 
hood." 

If  there  had  been  any  delay,  a  skilful  lawyer  might 
have  contrived  a  powerful  defence.  But  the  parties  had 
no  time  even  to  sleep  upon  the  transactions.  The  in- 
vestigation was  followed  up  with  a  terrible  activity  and 
despatch.  And  it  was  of  such  a  nature  as  if  dead  men 
could  tell  tales  as  well  as  living  witnesses.  At  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  another  careo,  or  confronting, 
took  place  between  the  prisoners.  But  being  still  dis- 
cordant in  their  testimony,  they  were  conducted  to  the 
Sagrafio,  or  parish  church  connected  with  the  cathe- 
dral, where  the  body  of  the  murdered  man  had  been 
carried,  soon  after  the  assassination  took  place.  While 
the  soldiers  had  been  taking  Don  Juan  from  his  bed, 
others  had  laid  the  body  on  its  bier  within  the  solemn 
shadows  of  the  cathedral.  Thither  the  multitude  of  an 
awakened  city  poured,  and  there,  under  the  dim  arches 


212  TIM:  OPAL. 

of  the  temple,  before  the  lifeless  and  gory  remains  of 
the  victim,  La  Rosa  solemnly  swore  to  the  charges  he 
had  before  made  against  his  accomplice,  and  face  to  face 
accused  him  of  the  murder.  The  countenance  of  the 
assassin  haunts  me  now,  his  citron  face,  and  black  eyes, 
like  lamps  in  a  cave,  desperate  and  wrathful.  "  In  the 
name  of  God,  I  swear  that  I  killed  this  man,  Don  Jose, 
instigated  and  hired  thereto  by  Don  Juan,  who  is  the 
murderer  !"  La  Rosa  had  nothing  to  conceal,  and  this 
oath  to  the  bloody  corpse  of  his  victim  carried  with  it 
into  the  soul  of  the  assembled  multitude  a  deep,  damn- 
ing  conviction. 

Meantime,  during  this  fearful  scene,  Don  Juan  re- 
mained  abashed  and  confounded.  He  uttered  nothing 
but  a  few  indistinct  articulations.  Then,  when  the 
assassin  had  finished  his  adjuration,  the  attorney-gene- 
ral commanded  Don  Juan  to  take  the  hand  of  the  corpse, 
and  curse  the  murderer — 'maledecir  su  ascsino.  Pale 
and  conscience-stricken,  he  dared  not  do  it,  but  as  in  a 
revery,  gazed  stupidly,  and  uttered  only  some  confused 
mutterings.  So  finished  the  trial  by  oath  in  the  cathe. 
dral,  with  the  murdered  man's  body. 

Next,  at  the  motion  of  the  attorney-general,  the 
prisoners  were  conducted  together  to  the  spot  where  the 
crime  was  perpetrated,  and  there  again  interrogated  on 
its  details.  They  were  carefully  guarded  between  a 
piquet  of  soldiers,  La  Rosa  with  his  arms  pinioned  at 
the  elbows,  his  bloody  hands  still  between  the  tablets  of 
wood,  and  Don  Juan  enveloped  in  his  capa,  and  full  of 
gloom,  remorse,  and  anxiety.  They  were  accompanied 


JUSTICE    IN   SPAIN.  213 

by  the  different  officers  engaged  in  taking  the  deposi- 
tions, one  of  them  carrying,  wrapped  in  a  handkerchief, 
the  bloody  knife  of  the  murderer. 

This  weapon  was  one  of  those  Spanish  knives  in  ge- 
neral use  among  the  peasantry  of  Andalusia,  with  which 
they  frequently  fight  their  bloody  duels,  and  give  the 
deadly  stab  in  moments  of  furious  passion,  or  in  cool, 
rankling  vengeance.  I  have  one  of  these  knives  in  my 
possession,  and  I  am  sure  that  the  ideas  of  piracy  and 
murder  attached  in  every  one's  mind  to  the  term  "  a 
long  Spanish  knife,"  have  a  most  natural  and  legitimate 
origin.  It  has  a  blade  about  twelve  or  fifteen  inches  in 
length,  and  two  inches  wide  at  the  haft,  tapering  gradu- 
ally to  a  sharp  point,  for  about  three  inches  from  which 
it  is  double  edged.  It  is  made  to  open  and  shut  like  a 
jack-knife,  with  a  strong  spring,  into  a  handle  of  brass, 
the  back  of  which  is  composed  of  a  piece  of  steel,  which 
the  peasants  use  to  strike  fire,  when  they  wish  to  light 
their  cigarritos  de  papel.  The  most  singular  and 
characteristic  part  of  this  knife  is  the  inscription  on  the 
side  of  the  blade.  It  is  a  very  distinct  and  significant 
couplet,  reading  as  follows  : 

Quien  a'  mi  amo  ofendiere 
De  mi  la  venganza  espere. 

This  may  be  rendered  exactly  into  English  rhyme,  thus : 

He  who  my  owner  doth  offend 

On  my  keen  vengeance  may  depend. 

This  was  the  weapon  of  La  Rosa  the  murderer.  Doubt- 
less it  had  done  similar  work  in  his  hands  before. 


214  THE    OPAL. 

Thus  they  moved  on  from  point  to  point  in  their  in- 
vestigating process  ;  and  never  before  or  since  have  I 
witnessed  such  a  procession  as  that.  As  it  passed  from 
place  to  place,  literally  "  making  inquisition  for  blood," 
followed  by  an  immense  rushing  multitude,  eager  to  get 
sight  of  the  prisoners,  the  impression  was  terrific.  An 
intense  interest  pervaded  the  whole  city ;  all  eyes  were 
strained  to  gaze,  all  ears  erect  to  hear,  and  every  tongue 
dwelt  in  accents  of  horror  on  the  details  of  the  tragedy. 
At  the  spot  where  Don  Jose  had  been  stabbed,  the  pro- 
cession rested,  and  the  criminals  were  questioned  as  to 
the  route  which  they  took  from  their  place  of  rendezvous 
to  the  point  where  they  expected  to  meet  their  victim. 
La  Rosa,  with  a  sort  of  malignant  satisfaction,  described 
the  whole  scene. 

During  the  course  of  the  day,  fifty-one  witnesses 
were  examined.  The  murderer  also  went  into  more 
detailed  and  astounding  disclosures,  showing  in  part  the 
sums  of  money  paid  beforehand,  the  cool,  calculating 
deliberation  in  all  preliminary  arrangements  for  the 
murder,  and  their  patience  in  awaiting  their  doomed  vic- 
tim. The  monster  persisted  in  all  his  previous  state- 
ments, and  spoke  of  his  crime  with  such  a  terrible  tran- 
quillity and  self-possession,  that  the  tones  of  his  voice 
grated  with  a  horrid  dissonance  upon  the  ear.  Don 
Juan  remained  silent,  absorbed  in  dreadful  forebodings 
ae  to  the  result.  At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  the 
depositions  and  confessions  of  the  day  were  concluded. 
Then  at  four  in  the  morning  the  assassin  and  his  accom- 
plice Don  Juan,  with  their  legal  defenders  and  the  whole 
body  of  the  witnesses,  solemnly  ratified  their  testimony. 


JUSTICE    IN    SPAIN.  215 

This  was  the  day  of  the  trial,  and  the  interest  and 
agitation  of  the  public  rose  to  a  still  higher  pitch.  New 
confrontings  took  place,  and  at  twelve  o'clock  the  cause 
passed  into  the  hands  of  the  counsel  for  the  accused. 
An  immense  multitude  thronged  every  avenue  leading  to 
the  convent  of  San  Felipe,  where  the  council  was  held,  and 
anxiety  and  impatience  were  portrayed  on  every  coun- 
tenance. It  is  difficult  to  convey  to  my  readers  an  idea 
of  the  course  of  a  criminal  process,  where  there  are  no 
pleadings,  nor  trial  by  jury,  nor  any  thing  like  it,  but 
where  bundles  of  papers  simply  pass  from  one  side  to 
the  other,  and  accusations  and  defences  are  read.  At 
half  past  six  in  the  afternoon  the  defence  returned  the 
cause,  and  at  eight  in  the  evening  the  counsel  of  war 
were  called  together,  to  hear  the  accusations  from  the 
attorney-general  on  the  part  of  government  against  the 
prisoners,  and  their  defence  on  the  part  of  their  coun- 
sel, and  from  all  the  data  and  evidence  before  the  court 
to  give  sentence. 

The  speech  of  the  attorney-general  was  short.  He 
demanded  capital  punishment  against  both  criminals. 
The  defence  followed.  That  of  Don  Juan  was  read  by 
his  defender  ;  it  was  animated  and  logical,  and  excited 
in  the  audience  a  deep  interest.  Tha  of  La  Rosa  was 
simple  and  laconic,  being  merely  an  appeal  to  pity. 
The  accusation  and  defence  being  concluded,  it  would  be 
natural  to  suppose  that  thereupon  the  opinion  of  the 
court  would  be  made  up,  and  sentence  pronounced  ac- 
cordingly ;  but  now  ensued  one  of  the  most  extraordi- 
nary scenes  which  can  be  conceived  in  the  course  of  a 


216  THE    OPAL. 

judicial  trial,  casting  around  it  a  deeper  solemnity  and 
horror  than  any  of  the  preceding  steps. 

The  defence  being  concluded,  the  bloody  corpse  of 
the  unfortunate  Don  Jose  was  solemnly  transferred  from 
the  cathedral,  where  it  had  lain  amidst  wax-lights  and 
masses,  and  was  brought  before  the  council ;  the  two 
criminals  were  then  posted  beside  it,  and  a  new  con- 
fronting took  place.  La  Rosa,  the  cold-blooded  and 
hardened  assassin,  maintained  the  same  stern  and  ma- 
lignant composure  with  which  he  appeared  from  the 
first.  If  he  could  not  escape  himself,  he  was  resolved 
that  his  accomplice  and  master  in  the  crime  should  not. 
He  restated  and  insisted  on  his  charges  against  Don 
Juan,  and  entered  into  such  a  multitude  of  particulars, 
that  the  narrative  excited  fresh  horror  and  indignation. 
Meantime,  Don  Juan  himself  endeavoured  to  assume  the 
air  of  carelessness  and  defiance ;  he  smoked  his  cigar, 
maintained  his  innocence,  persisted  in  denying  the  accu- 
sations of  La  Rosa,  and  declared  that  it  was  all  im- 
posture and  calumny. 

Next,  the  president  of  the  council  directed  the  simulta- 
neous transition  of  the  tribunal,  the  prisoners,  the  attor- 
ney-general and  the  counsel  for  the  accused,  together  with 
the  ghastly  corpse  of  the  murdered  victim,  to  the  place 
where  the  assassination  was  perpetrated.  What  made  this 
solemn  act  more  appalling,  was  the  circumstance  of  its 
being  performed  at  the  dead  of  night,  before  an  immense 
concourse  of  spectators,  the  expression  of  whose  motley 
faces,  as  they  gazed  on  the  dead  body  and  on  one  ano- 
ther, grew  wild  and  deep  in  the  torch-light.  Again  La 


JUSTICE    IN   SPAIN.  217 

Rosa,  standing  beneath  the  bloody  stains  upon  the  wall, 
confirmed  all  his  previous  statements,  and  with  singular 
coolness  and  serenity  repeated  the  minutest  details  of 
the  crime.  After  this,  the  tribunal  was  dissolved,  and 
its  opinion,  given  in  writing,  passed  into  the  hands  of 
the  captain-general,  for  his  confirmation  or  disapproba- 
tion. The  sentence  being  for  the  execution  of  both 
criminals,  he  made  not  a  moment's  hesitation  to  sanction 
and  perform  it ;  although  the  family  and  friends  of  Don 
Juan,  being  rich  and  powerful,  and  among  the  first  in 
the  city  for  respectability  and  influence,  made  immense 
efforts  for  the  young  lawyer's  rescue.  It  was  said  that 
ten  thousand  dollars  were  offered  by  them  to  the  captain- 
general,  if  he  would  only  commute  the  punishment  to 
imprisonment  for  life  in  the  Presidio  of  Ceuta,  a  Spanish 
fortress  for  criminals  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  nearly 
opposite  Gibraltar. 

The  tribunal  being  dissolved  after  the  solemn  night- 
scene  with  the  corpse,  the  sentence  being  confirmed,  and 
the  execution  appointed,  Don  Juan  and  La  Rosa  were 
placed,  at  ten  o'clock  of  the  same  morning,  in  the  chapel 
of  the  convent. — entrar  en  capUla, — to  prepare  for  their 
approaching  death.  Entrar  en  capilla  is  an  expression, 
for  which  in  English  we  have  no  exact  equivalent. 
When  it  is  said  of  a  criminal  in  Spain,  "estaen  capilla,'''' 
you  need  no  other  statement  to  inform  you  that  in  a  few 
hours,  or  a  day  or  two  at  farthest,  his  execution  will 
take  place.  While  in  the  chapel  he  is  constantly 
attended  by  priests,  who  say  the  death  masses  and  ad- 
minister the  sacraments,  and  thence  he  goes  forth, 
accompanied  by  his  confessors,  to  the  place  of  punish- 
19 


218  THE    OPAL. 

ment.  But  all  the  masses  and  extreme  unctions  in  the 
Romish  world,  could  not  soothe  the  conscience  of  one  of 
these  murderers.  The  unhappy  young  lawyer  passed 
that  day  and  the  following  night  in  a  febrile  delirium, 
amid  the  dreadful  anxieties  and  reflections  natural  to  his 
situation.  From  the  moment  of  his  being  placed  en 
capilla,  all  hope  forsook  him.  The  murderer  La  Rosa 
made  no  change  from  his  hardened  and  desperate 
serenity. 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  second  of 
November,  they  came  forth  from  the  capilla,  in  the  con- 
vent of  San -Felipe,  on  their  way  to  execution.  An  im- 
mense mass  of  the  population  of  Malaga  had  assembled 
to  witness  the  concluding  melancholy  act  of  this  tragedy. 
In  the  midst  of  a  strong  detachment  of  troops  of  the  line, 
the  muffled  drums  playing  the  dead  march,  went  La 
Rosa,  walking  erect  and  firm,  with  perfect  self-posses- 
sion ;  at  some  little  distance,  sad  and  distressed,  followed 
Don  Juan,  walking  between  two  priests,  listening  to  their 
exhortations,  and  saluting  his  friends  and  acquaintances 
as  he  passed.  When  the  melancholy  procession  arrived 
at  the  barrio,  or  the  open  space  on  the  banks  of  the 
Guadal-Medina,  where  he  could  behold  on  the  opposite 
side  the  beautiful  country-seat  which  he  owned,  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears  as  he  looked  upon  the  pleasant  spot  for 
the  last  time.  Little  had  he  anticipated,  while  projecting 
his  murderous  intrigues,  that  not  far  from  the  same  spot 
he  should  suffer  an  ignominious  execution,  along  with  a 
common  assassin,  the  hired  instrument  in  accomplishing 
his  designs  ! 

It  was  evident  that  La  Rosa  feared,  even  to  the  last. 


JUSTICE    IN    SPAIN.  219 

that  Don  Juan  might  escape.  In  a  regular  trial  by  jury, 
the  lawyers  might  have  made  much  for  Don  Juan's 
defence  out  of  La  Rosa's  malignity.  Several  times  on 
the  way  from  the  chapel  to  the  place  of  execution,  the 
assassin  turned  his  head  and  looked  back,  suspicious  that 
his  partner  in  the  crime  might  not  be  coming.  "  Viene 
ese  caballero  ?"  said  he,  "  Is  that  gentleman  coming  ?" 

An  open  space  on  the  west  side  of  the  Guadal-Medina 
had  been  designated  for  the  execution,  and  thither  had 
been  carried  the  corpse  of  the  murdered  young  man  ; 
the  captain-general  being  resolved  that  no  circumstance 
of  horror  should  be  wanting,  to  deter  others  from  the 
commission  of  similar  crimes.  And  indeed  the  whole 
conduct  of  the  affair  produced  an  impression  on  the  city 
such  as  never  had  been  made  before. 

The  fatal  square  being  formed,  La  Rosa  again,  in  a 
loud  clear  voice,  insisted  on  the  truth  of  all  his  declara- 
tions. Beneath  the  solemn  adjurations  of  his  confessor, 
he  declared  that  he  forgave  Don  Juan,  and  begged  the 
bystanders  to  pray  God  to  pardon  him ;  and  then,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  the  Romish  system,  prayed  them  to  say  a 
Credo,  and  a  Salve  to  the  Virgin  del  Carmen.  This 
was  probably  the  particular  appellation  under  which  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  make  his  own  ora  pro  nobis  to 
the  Virgin  Mary — Maria  del  Carmen. 

The  criminals  being  seated  together  on  the  fatal  bench, 
La  Rosa  turned  to  Don  Juan,  and  with  an  expression  of 
the  most  bitter  sarcasm,  asked, — "  Es  esta  la  felicidad 
que  usted  me  prometia  ?"  "  Is  this  the  happiness  you 
promised  me  V — Don  Juan,  turning  to  his  confessor, 
besought  him  to  interpose.  "  For  Dios  que  no  me  mate 


220  THE   OPAL. 

ede  hombre  antes  de  tiempo  !"  "  Far  God's  sake  do  not 
let  that  'man  kill  me  before  tfo  time  /"  What  more 
dialogue  of  this  kind  might  have  passed  I  know  not ; 
but  certainly  it  was  a  foretaste  of  the  wild  world  of  the 
lost,  for  the  murderer  and  his  tempter  thus  to  be  brought 
together. 

As  I  stood  with  a  company  of  Spanish  friends  on  the 
banks  of  the  Guadal-Medina,  opposite  the  place  of  exe- 
cution, expecting  the  consummation  of  this  tragedy  of 
justice,  it  was  a  moment  of  most  painful  interest.  Na- 
ture seemed  not  at  all  to  sympathize  in  such  a  scene. 
The  deep  blue  sky  was  cloudless,  the  bright  rays  of  an 
autumnal  sun  poured  down  with  a  mild  and  genial 
warmth,  and  our  temples  were  fanned  by  an  air  of  such 
transparent  purity  and  delicious  balminess,  as  to  render 
the  very  breathing  of  it  a  luxury.  In  the  natural  world 
all  was  innocent,  serene  and  lovely,  and  here  we  were 
to  witness  the  doom  of  men  who  had  crimsoned  the 
earth  with  their  brother's  blood  ;  plotting  and  accom- 
plishing a  midnight  murder  under  such  circumstances, 
that  no  peaceful  citizen  could  be  safe  for  a  moment,  if 
such  crimes  went  unavenged. 

As  the  appointed  moment  arrived,  precisely  at  four 
o'clock,  an  officer's  sword  was  raised  in  the  air,  and 
gleaming  in  the  bright  sunshine  as  it  fell,  gave  the 
signal  for  the  death-volley.  A  quick,  sharp  report,  and 
the  curling  smoke  from  a  dozen  muskets,  told  that  all  wag 
over. — The  body  of  Don  Juan  was  followed  to  the  grave 
by  the  lawyers  of  Malaga ;  that  of  Rosa  was  buried  by 
La  Caridad,  the  brotherhood  of  charity. 

This  execution  was  on  the  whole  most  salutary  in  its 


JUSTICE    IN    SPAIN.  221 

effect  on  the  city  of  Malaga.  I  hardly  ever  knew  such 
an  instance  of  sudden  and  awful  retribution.  Had  the 
captain-general  acted  with  less  decision  and  prompti- 
tude— had  the  case  bsen  managed  with  the  usual  chi- 
canery and  delay  of  Spanish  law  tribunals,  it  was  thought 
that  Malaga  would  have  become  the  theatre  of  fearful 
and  bloody  riots,  which  would  most  certainly  have  been 
turned  by  their  leaders  into  occasions  for  gratifying  party 
animosities  and  political  vengeance.  The  excitement 
was  intense,  and  it  needed  but  the  torch  applied,  to 
kindle  it  into  a  flame,  that  would  well-nigh  have  burned 
up  the  city.  As  it  was,  even  amidst  the  Carlist  war,  a 
calm  succeeded  to  the  agitation  of  the  public  mind,  and 
men  felt  more  secure  than  before  ;  for  in  the  midst  of 
the  horrors  of  the  civil  conflict,  no  man  in  Spain  could 
have  predicted  that  such  an  assassination  in  any  city 
would  have  been  overtaken  with  vengeance.  The  fact 
that  it  was  so  overtaken,  and  that  with  such  stern  sum- 
mariness,  helped  to  save  Malaga  from  the  bloody  tumults 
of  the  revolution. 

Not  a  man  doubted  the  guilt  of  Don  Juan,  neither  was 
there  at  the  time  much  doubt  as  to  the  participation  of 
the  wife  of  his  victim  in  the  murder.  It  was  rumoured 
that  on  one  previous  occasion  they  had  together  attempted 
to  poison  Don  Jose.  The  public  authorities  considered 
her  as  implicated  in  the  crime  ;  so  she  was  arrested, 
and  for  several  weeks  guarded  by  soldiers  at  her  own 
house.  It  was  thought  that  she  would  be  publicly  exe- 
cuted by  the  garroie,  a  mode  of  execution  not  unfre- 
quently  practised  in  Spain  under  the  civil  law.  It  is 
a  very  simple,  though  dreadful  way  of  terminating  life, 
19* 


222  THE    OPAL. 

perhaps  invented  by  the  Inquisition.  The  criminal  sits 
in  an  arm-chair,  and  an  iron  collar  is  placed  round  his 
neck,  uniting  by  a  screw  behind,  so  that  when  the  fatal 
moment  arrives,  a  turn  or  two  of  the  screw  produces 
such  a  degree  of  compression,  as  to  cause  instant  death. 
The  wife  of  Don  Jose  escaped  this  evil,  being  gradually 
forgotten  by  the  public,  after  the  execution  of  Don  Juan 
and  La  Rosa ;  an  amount  of  justice  quite  unusual  in 
Spain  amidst  the  shocking  corruption  and  bribery  of  the 
legal  courts.  I  should  hardly  be  believed  if  I  were  to 
relate  some  illustrations  of  the  nature  of  justice  in  Spain. 
And  some  of  my  own  personal  experience  of  the  manner 
in  which  a  gang  of  robbers  will  set  all  danger  at  defiance, 
and  accomplish  their  schemes  in  the  open  villages  in 
open  day  would  corroborate  the  wildest  romance. 

In  the  daily  occurrences  of  human  life,  as  well  as  in 
natural  scenery,  Spain  is  still  as  she  was  in  the  days  of 
Don  Quixote,  one  of  the  most  romantic  countries  in  the 
world,  and  is  constantly  exemplifying  the  verity  of  the 
adage,  that  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction. 


LINES    TO   THE   SOUL. 

BY  WILLIAM  PITT  PALMER. 

Hoepes,  comesque  corporis ! 

EMPEROR  ADRIAN. 

MYSTERIOUS  power !  where  is  thy  seated  home  1 

In  the  dark  chambers  of  the  haunted  brain  1 
Or  dost  thou,  like  a  restless  Naiad,  roam 

The  deep  meanderings  of  the  purple  vein, 
For  ever  coursing  in  thy  swift  career 

Life's  crimson  river  in  its  mazy  round  ? 

Or  art  thou  found 
Cradled  within  the  heart's  impassioned  sphere, 

Rocked  by  its  solemn  pulses,  whose  quick  beat, 
Like  a  weird  death-watch  at  a  dying  ear, 

Is  chronicling  the  moments  few  and  fleet, 
Thy  earthly  span  that  bound 1 

And  what  art  thou,  invisible 

And  unimagined  form! 
Wrapped  in  this  dark,  material  shroud, 
Like  lightning  in  the  muffling  cloud 

Of  midnight's  brooding  storm ! 
Thy  presence  makes  me  what  I  am  ; 

Thy  being  is  my  own ; 
And  though  thou  quickenest  every  sense, 

Thou  art  to  all  unknown. 


224  THE    OPAL. 

Frail,  feeble  nursling  of  the  dust, 

With  reason's  glory  crowned, 
Man  measures  earth's  stupendous  globe, 

And  marks  its  mighty  bound  : 
His  search  has  solved  the  mystic  tides 

In  their  alternate  course ; 
And  sunward  traced  the  viewless  winds 

Up  to  their  flaming  source  : 
Yea,  his  far  ken  hath  read  the  skies 
With  all  their  starry  blazonries 

That  o'er  us  nightly  burn  ; 
Hath  marked  the  planet's  boundless  ring, 
And  fixed  the  certain  years  that  bring 

The  comet's  dread  return : 
Yet,  spirit !  when  his  curious  zeal 

To  thy  deep  quest  applies, 
How  like  to  groping  blindness  shows 

The  wisdom  of  the  wise  ! 

Art  thou  a  portion  of  the  clay 

That  forms  thy  natal  twin, 
Typed  by  the  mortal  chrysalis 

Its  grosser  shell  within  1 
Say,  shall  the  grave  for  ever  mock 

Faith's  high  and  holy  trust, 
And  the  worm  waste  thee  as  'twill  waste 

Thy  fellow  of  the  dust  1 
No  !  though  awhile  to  earthliness 

Bound  by  a  brittle  tie, 
Germ  of  the  Universal  Soul, 

It  is  not  thine  to  die  ! 

This  truth,  so  fraught  with  joyousness, 

So  grateful  and  sublime, 
Defied  the  grasp  of  sage  and  seer 

In  the  far  olden  time ; 


LINES    TO    THE    SOUL.  225 

Though  oft  with  yearning  zeal  they  sought, 
Nerved  with  the  powers  of  mightiest  thought, 

To  force  the  Stygian  bars 
That  held  them  from  thy  doubtful  fate, 
Then  died  with  bosom  desolate 

As  night  without  her  stars ! 

Then  fear  not  thou  whose  being's  hope 

May  match  the  cherubim's, 
Though  this  dark  mask  of  breathing  clay 

Awhile  its  glory  dims ; 
For  if  on  earth's  probative  scene 

With  thousand  snares  bespread, 
Thou  in  the  dust  Temptation's  lures 

Unfalteringly  shall  tread ; 
True  to  thy  better  nature,  true 

To  virtue's  stern  behests, 
And  to  that  warning  oracle 

Shrined  in  all  human  breasts ; 
Thou  'st  all  to  hope,  and  nought  to  fear 
From  that  which  men  call  fortune  here, 

Or  chance  or  fate  adverse, 
Comes  it  with  want's  imperious  stress, 
Ingratitude  or  friendlessness, 

Or  death's  relentless  curse  : 
For,  ever  in  thy  lornest  hour, 
Shall  Faith  still  point  the  promised  dower 

That  waits  thy  blest  remove. 
Cycles  of  unimagined  years, 
Unknown  alike  to  change  or  tears, 
Where  all  is  peace  and  love. 

Therefore  bear  nobly  up,  my  soul, 

Against  all  power  of  ill, 
And  with  unshrinking  fortitude 

Thy  destiny  fulfil. 


226  THE    OPAL. 

So  when  thy  jubilee  shall  come, 

As  come  it  must  to  all, 
And  death  shall  kindly  bid  thee  pass 

From  penance  and  from  thrall ; 
Thou,  like  caged  bird  to  freedom  given, 
Thy  bands  of  earthly  durance  riven, 
With  joyous  wing  shalt  rise, 
From  all  the  foes  that  haunt  thee  here, 
Sin,  sorrow,  scorn,  and  doubt  and  fear, 
Up  to  thy  native  skies  ! 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  SABBATH. 


BY  H.  HASTINGS  WELD. 

"  WILL  the  baby  die,  mother  ?" 

The  inquirer  was  herself  a  child,  and  the  look  of 
earnest  curiosity  with  which  she  watched  her  mother's 
face,  to  gather  from  that  the  reply  which  the  parent 
could  not  speak,  testified  to  that  precocity  of  intellect, 
that  early  developement  of  intelligence  which  is  the  lot 
of  the  children  of  the  poor.  To  us,  this  union  of 
matured  perceptions  with  juvenile  features,  is  among  the 
most  painful  of  the  traits  which  distinguish  the  offspring 
of  those  whose  every  step  is  a  contention  with  obstacles, 
— whose  every  gesture  seems  a  buffet  with  the  world. 
But  if  the  face  of  the  daughter  was  painfully  interesting, 
that  of  the  mother  was  no  less  so.  Though  still  young, 
toil,  anxiety,  and  care,  and,  above  all,  grief,  had  marked 
her  countenance  with  the  evidences  that  young  though 
she  might  be  in  years,  in  experience  she  had  lived  out  a 
lifetime.  She  was  bending  over  the  cradle  of  an  infant, 
whose  quiet  sleep  seemed  the  suspension  of  its  little 
being.  Pale  and  wan,  she  seemed  scarce  farther  from 
the  grave  than  her  infant  charge,  in  watching  whose 


228  THE    OPAL. 

almost  imperceptible  breathings,  her  whole  attention  was 
absorbed. 

"  Will  little  sis  die  now,  mother  ?"  the  elder  child 
again  asked.  There  was  a  volume  of  meaning  in  the 
tone  in  which  the  inquiry  was  put.  It  expressed  the 
resignation  which  all  in  that  little  household  had  made — 
the  conviction  that  their  well-beloved  infant  companion 
was  sick  unto  death ;  and  all  that  Mary  could  hope  in 
answer  was,  that  the  moment  of  the  departure  of  the 
innocent  was  not  yet — not  that  instant.  A  half  an  hour 
seemed  a  long  future — a  day  seemed  years.  Who  that 
has  watched  the  life  of  a  child  wasting  away  has  ever 
forgotten  it  ?  The  unconscious  sufferer,  incapable  alike 
of  appreciating  its  danger,  or  of  communicating  its 
feelings  to  the  earnest  affection  which  surrounds  its  bed, 
— the  meekness  of  endurance — the  supplicating  glances 
from  the  eyes  of  a  dying  child — oh  !  how  deeply  do  they 
move  the  heart !  When  man  sinks  from  his  strength, 
or  woman  wastes  from  her  loveliness  into  the  arms  of 
death,  at  each  stage  of  the  disease  the  invalid  can  com- 
municate with  attendant  friends ;  at  each  pause-like  re- 
spite  in  the  journey  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow, 
adieux  may  be  re-exchanged  between  those  who  are  to  part 
at  the  grave,  but  to  meet  again  beyond  it.  But  where  the 
babe,  in  pain,  but  unconscious  from  what  cause  or  to 
what  end,  looks  up  imploringly  to  her  who,  though  now 
powerless  to  aid,  has  hitherto  been  its  solace,  the  mother 
feels  she  could  willingly  die  with  her  child,  if  she  could 
make  the  sufferer  understand  that  it  is  death — the  death 
appointed  to  all — which  is  slowly  but  surely  stilling  the 
pulses  of  its  innocent  heart. 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  SABBATH.  229 

So  felt  the  young  wife  and  mother — but  still  she  spoke 
not.  No  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  that  house  in  the 
forest — no  hum  of  passengers,  no  notes  of  busy  life,  in 
discord  with  the  scene,  mocked  the  silent  grief  of  the 
mother  and  sister  of  the  dying  child.  There  was  a 
melancholy  appositeness  in  the  solitude  of  the  place, 
and  in  the  stern  and  natural  simplicity  without  and 
within  the  dwelling.  The  light  vernal  winds  moved  the 
branches  of  the  primeval  tree  of  the  forest  which  shaded 
the  humble  cabin,  and,  as  the  sun  stole  in  between  at 
the  open  door  among  the  leaves,  the  shadow  of  a  lesser 
branch  of  the  tree  trembled  to  and  fro  upon  the  infant's 
lips,  as  if  it  emblemed  there  the  flickering  of  its  breath. 
This  painfully  beautiful  thought  entered  the  mind  of  the 
mother — and  while  she  still  dwelt  upon  it,  the  door  was 
darkened — the  poetic  vision  was  lost, — and  her  husband 
and  her  brother  entered  with  a  noiseless  step.  The  boy 
had  plucked  a  violet  in  the  vain  hope  of  attracting  the 
dying  child's  attention.  It  had  withered  in  his  hand 
as  he  walked,  and  while  he  stood  over  the  couch,  struck 
with  the  alteration  which  in  a  few  hours  had  taken  place, 
he  let  it  fall  upon  the  pillow.  The  mother  took  it  up — 
she  looked  at  the  withered  blossom  of  spring,  and  then 
at  the  withered  flower  of  her  maternal  hopes.  Turning 
to  her  husband,  she  sunk  upon  his  neck,  and  wept. 

The  child  was  dear  to  them.  Exiled,  in  part  perhaps 
by  a  truant  disposition,  and  that  restless  spirit  of  enter- 
prise and  adventure  which  is  characteristic  of  the 
American  people,  they  had  wandered  far,  before  they 
had  here  pitched  their  tent.  Accustomed  in  New  Eng- 
land to  the  comforts  which  industry  places  within  the 
20 


5i30  THE    OPAL. 

reach  of  all — to  the  refinement  of  mind  which  education 
creates — to  the  social  habits  which  the  institutions  and 
manners  of  New  England  foster — and  above  all,  to  the 
religious  privileges  which  bless  the  descendants  of  those 
who  sought  a  new  world  to  worship  God  after  their  own 
consciences,  the  Far  West  for  many  a  weary  month 
seemed  to  them  a  solitude  dreary  indeed — but  never 
quite  a  solitude.  They  had  early  learned  that  there  is 
One  from  whose  presence  no  creature  can  be  banished  ; 
and  isolated  as  they  were  in  the  mighty  forest,  the 
little  family  never  forgot  that  He  lives,  of  whom  it  is 
written,  "  If  I  take  the  wings  of  the  morning  and  dwell 
in  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  sea,  even  there  shall  Thy 
hand  lead  me,  and  Thy  right  hand  uphold  me." 

To  mother — to  father — to  sister — and  to  the  brother 
who  had  accompanied  them  in  their  wanderings,  the 
birth  of  that  child  had  been  as  a  new  creation — it  had 
consecrated  for  them  a  new  home,  and  created  a  tie 
which  had  bound  them  to  the  spot.  The  gift  of  God's 
mercy  to  them,  it  had  been  as  a  ray  of  light  which 
made  the  desert  blossom  as  the  rose.  All  their  hearts 
clung  to  the  little  stranger  ;  every  feeble  opening  of  the 
precious  bud  was  watched — every  glimmer  of  future 
intelligence  in  the  child  was  to  them  as  the  earnest  of 
coming  perfect  day.  The  smiles  of  its  infantile  joy  had 
been  the  sunshine  of  their  hearts.  The  tree  before  their 
door  appeared  greener  and  stronger  when  the  little  one 
crowed  its  admiration  in  looking  up,  and  vainly  strove 
to  grasp  its  branches — the  clearing  about  the  door  was 
thought  of  only  as  little  Ellen's  playground- — the  house, 
which  seemed  before  her  birth  dull  and  narrow  and 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  SABBATH.  231 

/ 

dark,  was  now  a  paradise  on  earth,  since  there  the 
cherub  first  saw  the  day.  Any  shelter  would  have 
seemed  a  palace  to  them  in  which  the  babe  could  stand 
upright  to  learn  to  walk. 

And  now  the  hand  of  death  was  on  these  hopes — and 
silently  they  waited  the  fearful  consummation  of  his 
work.  Thought  was  busy  with  both  father  and  mother, 
— one  sentiment  they  held  in  common.  But  a  week 
before  had  any  one  doubted  in  their  presence,  that  their 
cottage  was  an  elysium,  each  would  have  eloquently 
defended  it ;  but  now  to  each  it  seemed  already  a  char- 
nel-house, and  they  felt  as  if  the  damp  of  death  was  on 
its  walls.  The  mother's  mind  wandered  back  to  the 
home  of  her  childhood — to  the  pleasant  places  which 
she  had  deserted  for  the  forest — to  the  cheerful  house, 
and  friends  sympathizing  in  her  joy,  when  Mary,  her 
eldest,  was  born.  She  conned  over,  one  by  one,  the 
kind  faces  which  would  there  have  crowded  around  her, 
in  a  scene  like  this.  She  remembered  the  village  pas- 
tor, who  would  have  been  ready  with  his  words  of  con- 
solation, words  fitly  chosen,  "  like  apples  of  gold,  in 
pictures  of  silver."  She  recollected  the  kind  physician, 
and  can  we  wonder  if  she  felt,  in  her  grief,  that  his 
skill  might  at  least  alleviate  and  postpone,  if  not  avert 
the  death  which  threatened  her  dearly  beloved  infant? 

The  father,  as  he  mused,  thought  not  of  the  past, 
but  of  the  future.  To  him,  as  to  her,  longer  residence 
in  that  spot  seemed  insupportable — but  while  visions  of 
the  home  she  had  left  occupied  the  mind  of  the  mother, 
the  father  looked  forward  to  still  another  new  home,  as 
if,  by  retreating  from  mankind,  he  could  remove  from 


232  THE    OPAL. 

exposure  to  disease  and  death.  To  neither  could  their 
recently  pleasant  dwelling  longer  be  tolerable — with 
both,  the  place  would  seem  to  create  none  but  melan- 
choly associations.  But  he  felt  at  last  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  struggle  to  check  repinings  against  God's  provi- 
dence ;  and  looking  for  aid  to  that  source  whence  alone 
support  in  all  affliction  should  be  sought,  he  opened  the 
sacred  volume. 

His  eye  fell  upon  the  history  of  Hagar  in  the  desert. 
In  a  low  but  distinct  tone  he  read  of  the  despair  of 
the  exile  in  the  wilderness,  and  while  their  daughter 
was  expiring  far  from  human  aid,  the  parents  felt  with 
the  Egyptian  woman  that  they  "  could  not  see  the  death 
of  the  child,"  and  like  Hagar  they  "  lifted  up  their 
voices  and  wept."  As  he  proceeded  in  reading,  "  and 
the  angel  of  God  called  to  Hagar  out  of  heaven,  what 
aileth  thee  Hagar  1  Fear  not !" — the  quick  perception 
of  the  mother  caught  a  movement  in  the  cradle.  All 
flew  at  once  to  the  child's  side,  prepared  to  witness  its 
last  breath.  But  as  to  Hagar  in  the  wilderness,  so  had 
God  been  merciful  to  them.  The  crisis  was  past — a 
gentle  perspiration  stood  upon  the  sufferer's  brow — its 
eyes  opened  and  a  faint  smile  played  around  its  lips. 
Affection,  ever  ready  to  catch  at  the  slightest  ground  of 
hope,  was  this  time  not  deceived.  As  the  child  now  fell 
again  into  a  sleep,  but  a  sleep  like  that  of  welcome  rest, 
instead  of  the  feverish  slumber  which  had  before  ha- 
rassed their  affection,  the  emigrant  family  knelt  in  joyful 
thanksgiving,  too  deep  and  heartfelt  for  loud  words. 
The  dead  was  alive  again. 

Joyous  was  the  following  Sabbath ;  nor  did  the  happy 


THE  EMIGKANT'S  SABBATH.  233 

family  forget  that  Being  to  whom  their  gratitude  was  due 
for  the  great  mercy  vouchsafed  to  them.  The  mother 
had  already  renewed  the  youth  of  which  affliction  had 
despoiled  her,  and  little  Mary,  as  she  leaned  affection- 
ately on  her  mother's  shoulder,  smiled  that  awe-mingled 
gratitude  which  children  as  well  as  adults  may  feel, 
though  incapable  of  other  expression  than  the  silent  and 
natural  workings  of  their  happy  faces.  With  cheerful 
hearts  they  worshipped  him  who  "  dwelleth  not  in  tem- 
ples made  with  hands,"  and  heart  and  voice  responded 
Amen !  as  the  father  of  the  little  household  said,  with 
the  sweet  singer  of  Israel,  "  O  give  thanks  unto  the 
Lord,  for  he  is  good :  for  his  mercy  endureth  for  ever." 


20" 


THE  RETURN. 


BY  SAMUEL  D.  PATTERSON,  ESQ. 

'Tis  home !    I  mark  the  creeping  ivy  twine 

Above,  around  its  weather-beaten  wall — 
I  pass  the  arbour,  and  the  clustering  vine, 

The  stone-laid  portal,  and  the  dusky  hall. 
I  enter — but  my  footsteps'  echoes  fall 

Upon  a  listless  ear,  for  thought  is  rife 
With  recollections  of  the  past,  and  all 

The  fond  dreams  buried,  wake  at  once  to  life. 

They  come  like  shadows,  bringing  back  to  sight 

The  loved  and  cherished  of  my  early  years — 
Those  years,  when  every  season  breathed  delight, 

And  earth  was  lovely — when  nor  griefs,  nor  cares, 
Nor  anguished  thoughts,  nor  sad  foreboding  fears 

Of  future  ills,  nor  disappointment's  blight, 
Had  swept  across  my  heartstrings,  bidding  tears 

Mar  the  fair  beauty  of  creation's  light 

My  father  !     Through  the  dim  and  shadowy  view 
Of  time's  long  vista,  I  behold  thee  still — 

Form,  feature,  air,  mein,  gesture,  all  are  true 
And  lifelike,  as  when  erst — in  tones  that  thrill 


THE    RETURN.  235 

E'en  yet  upon  my  heart — my  truant  will 
Thy  counsels,  grave  and  holy,  mildly  drew 

From  error's  thorny  path,  and  strove  t'  instil 
Youth's  lesson — what  to  shun,  and  what  pursue. 

Source  of  my  being,  watchful  was  thy  care, 

Faithful  thy  zeal,  earnest  and  strong  thy  love — 
Thou  art  my  father  still,  for  thou  dost  wear 

The  same  calm  smile  that  I  was  wont  to  prove 
A  token  of  thy  pleasure — I  will  bear, 

As  onward  on  life's  toilsome  march  I  move, 
Within  my  heart  the  consciousness,  that  there, 

All  which  is  good  was  planted  by  thy  love. 

And  thou,  my  mother,  sainted  spirit,  hail ! 

My  heart  throbs  wildly  as  thy  form  I  see, 
And  would,  but  cannot,  breathe  the  wond'rous  tale 

Of  all  I  owe  thy  kindness — unto  me 
Thy  love  was  bliss,  and  now  its  memory 

Falls,  like  the  dew  upon  the  thirsty  vale, 
Refreshing,  cheering — for  I  know  the  tie 

Which  bound  thy  heart  to  mine  will  still  prevail 

Triumphant  over  death.     A  mother's  love 

Is  an  undying  feeling.     Earth  may  chill 
And  sever  other  sympathies,  and  prove 

How  weak  all  human  bonds  are — it  may  kill 
Friendships,  and  crush  hearts  with  them — but  the  thrill 

Of  the  maternal  breast  must  ever  move 
In  blest  communion  with  her  child,  and  fill 

Even  heaven  itself  with  prayers  and  hymns  of  love. 

And  yet  another  group  I  see,  around 

The  household  hearth,  where  once  were  gathered  in 


236  THE    OPAL. 

Brothers  and  sisters,  and  the  cheerful  sound 
Of  jocund  laughter,  and  the  merry  din 

Of  mingled  voices,  told  that  death  and  sin 

Could  boast  few  trophies  on  that  hallowed  ground- 

They  stand  before  me,  bright  and  pure,  as  when 
Around  that  home-built  altar  peace  we  found. 

Stay,  loved  ones,  stay  !     Alas  !  the  shadowy  throng 

Which  wakened  blissful  memories  have  fled — 
And  now  I  muse,  in  loneliness,  among 

Scenes  of  departed  joys.     All,  all  are  dead, 
Save  one,  the  dreamer.     Azrael's  shafts  were  sped 

Swiftly,  and  they,  the  beautiful,  the  young, 
The  vigorous  and  active,  to  the  bed 

Of  the  cold  charnel-house  were  borne  along. 

And  I  am  now  alone.     We  shall  not  meet, 

Loved  ones,  again  on  earth.     Ye  cannot  come 
From  the  bright  presence  of  your  God,  to  greet 

The  storm-tossed  wand'rer  in  his  dreary  home. 
But  oh  !  though  destined  longer  here  to  roam, 

May  the  Almighty  guide  his  erring  feet 
In  the  same  path  ye  trod,  that  he  may  come 

And  meet  ye,  ransomed,  at  the  mercy  seat. 


LYRIC  POETRY. 

BY  H.  T.  TUCKERMAN. 

IT  seems  to  be  generally  conceded  that  the  era  of  dra- 
matic poetry  is  at  an  end.  Although  some  of  the  most 
recent  specimens  in  this  department  of  literature  have 
commanded  a  certain  degree  of  public  attention  and  eli- 
cited the  applause  of  critics,  they  evidently,  when  com- 
pared with  the  old  English  tragedy,  belong  to  a  differ- 
ent school  and  possess  an  inferior  interest.  The  object 
of  the  writer  seems  to  be  not  so  much  to  depict  inward 
struggles  as  to  narrate  a  tale  and  chronicle  a  few  gems 
of  expression.  Modern  plays,  even  of  the  best  kind, 
seem  rather  as  scaffoldings  to  support  a  story  or  con- 
venient threads  on  which  to  string  the  pearls  of  thought, 
than  "  mirrors  of  nature"  or  profound  pictures  of  life 
and  humanity.  The  King  of  Sparta,  when  he  saw  a 
machine  for  casting  stones,  called  it  "  the  grave  of 
valour" — so  the  refined  machinery  of  our  social  state 
may  be  regarded  as  the  sepulchre  of  that  freshness  of 
feeling,  that  heartiness  of  self-developement,  that  frank, 
adventurous  and  bold  character,  which  marks  the  dawn 
of  civilization,  and  is  the  fertile  source  of  a  powerful 
literature.  The  surface  of  society  in  this  age  is  too 


238  THE    OPAL. 

level  to  be  picturesque.  The  scope  for  mental  and  phy- 
sical enterprise  is  too  constrained  for  striking  display. 
The  motives  now  at  work  are  for  the  most  of  a  personal 
and  contracted  nature.  The  element  of  heroism  finds 
its  chief  activity  in  endurance.  Life,  indeed,  is  the  same 
scene  of  struggle,  exposure  and  excitement,  but  its  ener- 
gies are  alive  chiefly  to  the  moral  experience  of  each 
man,  instead  of  being  exhibited,  as  in  the  chivalric  ages, 
upon  the  broad  arena  of  the  world  and  before  the  gaze 
of  multitudes. 

The  diffusion  of  knowledge  seems  to  have  produced 
the  same  effect  upon  epic  poetry  that  social  refine- 
ment has  upon  dramatic.  Men  are  no  longer  divided 
into  the  grossly  ignorant  and  greatly  learned.  There  is 
an  immense  intermediate  class,  whose  vocations  prevent 
extensive  erudition,  but  whose  rninds  are  awakened  by 
popular  education,  and  improved  by  intercourse  with  supe- 
rior intelligence  and  occasional  reading.  Hence  scholar- 
ship is  not  the  rare  distinction  it  once  was,  nor  literary 
enjoyment  the  exclusive  privilege  of  a  few.  These, 
among  other  considerations,  give  weight  to  the  remark 
of  a  distinguished  writer,  that  the  "  era  of  universal  indi- 
vidualities is  past."  Nor  is  this  the  only  reason  for  the 
decline  of  epic  poetry.  Literature  is  so  common  a  luxury 
that  the  age  has  grown  fastidious.  The  moralist  is  ex- 
pected to  allure  men  to  virtue  by  his  beautiful  rhetoric. 
Philosophy  must  be  illustrated  by  charming  metaphors 
or  captivating  fiction  ;  and  history,  casting  aside  the 
tedious  garb  of  formal  narrative,  is  required  to  assume 
a  scenic  costume,  and  teem  with  the  connected  interest  of 
a  fascinating  tale.  The  poet,  too,  must  distil  his  roses 


LYRIC    POETRY.  239 

and  touch  his  harp  at  graceful  intervals.  His  auditors 
will  grow  weary  over  an  elaborate  production,  unless  it 
is  wrought  out  with  rare  felicity  or  boasts  some  novel 
attraction.  The  nice  appetite  of  a  modern  reader  is  soon 
sated.  However  his  poetical  taste,  fifty  pages  of  blank 
verse  are  too  formidable  to  be  adventured,  and  the  mere 
sight  of  half  a  dozen  cantos  of  heroics  provoke  a  yawn. 
The  times  are  too  busy,  outward  activity  too  absorbing, 
and  the  calls  upon  attention  too  unremitted  to  permit  us 
to  engage  in  those  long  and  wide-sweeping  literary  forays 
in  which  the  Germans  are  so  fond  of  indulging.  Ac- 
cordingly, poetry  has  taken  a  form  more  favourable  to 
its  circulation.  It  has  cast  off  its  ponderous  armour 
and  donned  a  more  courtly  dress.  It  seeks  to  concentrate 
its  spirit  in  diminutive  and  graceful  forms.  It  woos  the 
magic  process  recorded  in  Arabian  tales,  and  has  dis- 
covered the  art  of  contracting  its  vital  elements  into 
minute  shapes,  and  soaring  on  gossamer  wings.  Lyric 
poetry  is  thus  in  vogue  from  the  peculiar  circumstances 
of  the  age.  It  obtains  not  less  on  account  of  the  in- 
creased personality,  if  I  may  so  speak,  of  man  himself. 
A  series  of  external  events,  however  well  described  in 
stately  verse,  are  now  deemed  less  entertaining  than  a 
single  incident  or  emotion  freshly  portrayed  from  a  living 
mind.  The  individual  is  thought  more  interesting  than 
the  mass.  A  single  encounter  attracts  more  spectators 
than  a  promiscuous  battle.  We  have  had  leisure,  in  our 
unadventurous  times,  to  discover  the  finer  points  of  inte- 
rest in  the  great  picture  of  human  life.  Christian  civili- 
zation has  worked  a  daguerreotype  process  upon  the  com- 
mon and  universal  light  of  mind.  It  is  at  length  revealed 


240  THE    OPAL. 

that  a  profound  interest  attaches  to  the  humblest  of  our 
fellow-creatures.  The  scions  of  aristocracy  can  sit  for 
hours  upon  their  splendid  ottomans,  amid  mirrors,  vases, 
and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  fashionable  luxury,  conning 
with  tearful  eyes  the  memoirs  of  a  parish  boy ;  and  the 
accomplished  daughters  of  a  pampered  nobility  can  quote 
the  homely  expressions  of  Jeannie  Deans  instead  of  the 
elegant  sentimentality  of  Metastasio.  Sensibility  to  the 
universal  and  quiet  facts  of  human  nature,  renders  the 
poetic  records  of  an  individual's  experience  singularly 
attractive.  The  truth  is  now  acknowledged,  that  a  poet 
may  be  personal  without  being  egotistical.  The  regret, 
the  love,  or  the  hopes  poured  forth  in  his  song,  are 
indeed  tinged  with  his  idiosyncrasy,  but  they  are  essen- 
tially the  same  as  sway  the  bosoms  of  his  race,  and 
even  what  is  peculiar  in  their  phases  doubtless  finds  its 
reflection.  Lyric  poetry  survives  the  drama  and  the 
epic,  because  it  is  indissolubly  entwined  with  individual 
destiny.  The  latter  may  be  buried  in  the  grave  of  na- 
tionality, but  the  former  has  a  permanent  home  in  the 
bosom  of  man.  It  is  common  to  lament  this  revolution 
in  poetic  taste  and  practice.  It  is  frequently  cited  as  an 
evidence  of  mental  degeneracy.  There  was  adequate 
cause  for  this  at  those  periods  when  the  lyric  was  more 
artificial :  at  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
or  instance,  when  verses  were  written  only  to  bestow  de- 
grading adulation  or  embody  extravagant  similes,  which 
profanely  assumed  to  express  love,  and  overflowed  with 
false  wit,  the  concetti  of  the  Italians,  and  a  thousand 
tinsel  absurdities.  But  the  objection  does  not  hold  when 
applied  to  the  legitimate  lyric,  and  especially  to  those  of 


LYRIC    POETEY.  241 

a  period  when  the  love  of  freedom  and  humanizing  sen- 
timent abound,  and  find  their  sweetest  experience  in  song. 
Poetry  is  too  earnest  now  to  be  devoted  to  the  minute 
portraiture  of  a  metaphysical  passion,  whose  fanciful 
display  proves  its  hollowness.  The  lyrists  of  our  day 
have  too  often  struck  the  deep  chords  of  the  heart,  to 
expect  effects  from  cold  associations  of  imagery  or 
forced  tricks  of  versification. 

There  is  abundant  cause  to  rejoice  in  the  popularity 
of  lyric  poetry.  It  has  one  advantage  over  the  more 
pretending  branches  of  the  art,  which  cannot  but  endear 
it  to  the  lover  of  his  race.  It  is  more  penetrating  and 
diffusive.  Let  not  the  philosopher  frown  upon  the  lesser 
vehicles  of  thought  and  sentiment.  They  reach  many 
bosoms  that  would  otherwise  remain  wholly  unblessed 
by  their  genial  influence.  No  error  has  more  im- 
peded human  progress  than  the  cumberous  arrange- 
ments of  its  mistaken  friends.  In  this  regard,  nature 
teaches  a  subtle  wisdom.  The  gentle  beams  of  the 
serene  moon  sway  the  mighty  sea,  and  the  noiseless  dew 
freshens  the  whole  world  of  vegetation.  It  has  been 
said  that  tracts,  in  earlier  times,  disseminated  more 
knowledge  than  volumes,  and  we  all  know  that  periodi- 
cal literature  has  proved  a  mightier  agent  in  the  world 
of  opinion  than  learned  quartos.  The  romance  of 
history  has  threaded  a  wider  range  in  the  shape  of 
legendary  ballads,  than  in  that  of  elaborate  chronicles ; 
and  lyric  poetry  has  wafted  the  seeds  of  truth  and  the 
flowers  of  fancy  to  many  a  desert  nook  of  the  earth. 
While  the  men-of-war  of  literature — the  Iliads  and 
Divine  Comedies — have  swept  proudly  before  the  breeze 
21 


242  THE    OPAL. 

of  June,  on  the  broad  ocean  of  life,  lyrical  compositions, 
when  born  of  the  true  heart  and  the  fervent  imagination, 
have  glided,  in  meek  beauty,  into  the  lonely  bays,  or 
borne  their  freights  of  love  to  the  unvisited  shores  of 
some  solitary  isle.  Lyrics  are  like  sacred  sparks  of 
Promethean  fire,  floating  down  to  light  up  a  happy  glow 
in  the  shadowy  soul.  They  are  as  spring  blossoms, 
gently  dropping  from  the  tree  of  knowledge,  to  cheer 
the  passing  pilgrim  ;  stray  Peris  from  the  bowers  of 
Paradise,  creeping  playfully  into  the  chambers  of  the 
heart ;  single  strains  of  rare  music,  waking  long  echoes  ; 
wild  flowers,  springing  by  the  wayside  and  in  the  stony 
interstices  of  life's  rude  pathway.  They  catch  the  eye 
of  the  toiler  in  the  corner  of  a  newspaper,  and  impart  a 
momentary  but  sweet  refreshment.  They  greet  the  ear 
of  pleasure's  votary,  in  the  gay  saloon,  borne  on  the 
wings  of  some  insinuating  melody,  and  the  impression 
lingers  with  a  healing  charm,  to  soothe  the  wounds  of 
vanity  and  soften  the  iciness  of  pride.  In  hours  of 
listlessness  or  depression,  they  come  self-invoked,  from 
the  caves  of  memory,  bringing  repose  and  freshness  in 
their  perennial  bloom.  "  A  wave  of  genuine  Helicon," 
says  Lamb,  "  is  your  only  Spa  for  these  hypochondri- 
acs." As  the  falcon  launched  trustingly  heavenward  is 
lost  to  view,  the  course  of  the  higher  poetry  often  soars 
beyond  the  ken  of  the  multitude  ;  and  as  the  humbler 
birds  carol  blithely  round  our  dwellings,  so  the  meeker 
lays  of  the  muse  linger  tunefully  about  the  heart. 

The  genuine  lyric  is  the  offspring  of  sincere  feeling, 
the  expression  of  poetic  experience.  Completeness  and 
unity  of  design  are  essential  to  its  perfection  ;  for  "  song 


LYRIC    POETRY.  243 

is  but  the  eloquence  of  truth."  It  is  a  common  error  to 
wonder  at  the  rarity  of  poetic  production  where  the 
gift  is  known  to  be  professed.  But  lyrical  inspiration  is 
not  arbitrary,  but  spontaneous.  In  its  very  essence  it 
is  occasional.  A  true  poet  of  this  order  must  be  ex- 
cited by  some  circumstances  of  interest,  or  some  senti- 
ment of  power.  The  Lake  poets  have  desecrated  their 
fame  by  writing  artificially.  Where  their  themes  have 
been  true,  their  interest  real,  the  result  is  always  effec- 
tive. 

The  lyric  should  illustrate  a  single  great  truth,  or 
exemplify  one  overpowering  sentiment.  When  descrip- 
tive, it  is  best  adapted  to  portray  isolated  events  or  cele- 
brate individual  objects.  A  battle,  a  favourite  tree,  a 
romantic  incident  of  any  sort,  is  thus  succinctly  sung, 
and  around  such  a  nucleus  gather  the  crystallizations 
of  thought  in  brilliant  harmony.  The  lover  can  thus 
breathe  his  daring  hopes,  or  insinuate  his  affectionate 
reproaches ;  the  bereaved  twine  an  elegiac  garland 
around  the  tomb  where  his  heart  lies  buried  ;  the  devo- 
tional utter  their  trust  and  gratitude,  and  the  soul, 
touched  with  the  glories  of  creation,  find  a  more  genial 
medium  to  whisper  its  orisons.  The  capabilities  of  the 
lyric  are  as  various  as  the  events  of  life.  Better  mo- 
ments are  therein  embalmed.  Cheering  truths  are  thus 
familiarly  enshrined — consecrated  tapers  lighted  before 
the  altars  of  the  wayside.  Lyric  poetry  is  remarkably 
adapted  to  our  own  busy  and  unimaginative  country. 
Who  can  estimate  the  germs  of  virtue  or  the  refinement  of 
sentiment  induced  among  our  people  by  the  lyrics  which 
the  gazettes  and  school-books  of  the  country  have  borne 


244  THE    OPAL. 

to  the  minds  of  millions?  Recited  by  the  child  at  the 
fireside,  chanted  by  the  maiden  at  the  piano,  quoted  by 
the  divine  and  the  lecturer,  they  have  disseminated  an 
atmosphere  of  taste  and  awakened  the  springs  of  genius. 
Let  those  who  are  disposed  to  question  our  estimate 
of  lyric  poetry  as  a  means  of  culture  and  a  herald  of 
fame,  recollect  the  popularity  of  Berenger's  songs  in 
France,  the  acknowledged  influence  of  Goethe's  and 
Schiller's  lyrics  in  Germany,  and  the  ardour  with  which 
the  modern  Italians  cite  Felicigo  and  Monti.  Or  rather, 
let  the  objector  scan  his  own  mental  history,  and  glance 
at  the  actual  renown  of  the  bards  of  our  own  language. 
Who  reads  any  of  Dryden's  ambitious  attempts  in 
literature  ?  Yet  what  schoolboy  is  not  familiar  with  his 
ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  day?  How  few  comprehend  the 
philosophical  system  of  Coleridge  compared  with  those 
who  have  been  exalted  by  his  Hymn  in  the  Vale  of 
Chamouni,  and  thrilled  under  the  touching  sweetness  of 
his  Genevieve  ?  Cowper's  long  poem  to  no  inconside- 
rable class  of  readers  is  indeed  a  Task  ;  but  what  heart 
can  fail  to  melt  at  the  tenderness  of  his  Lines  to  his 
Mother's  Picture  ?  Korner's  few  songs  are  cherished 
memorials  of  his  bravery  and  death,  in  a  thousand 
hearts.  "  Not  a  drum  was  heard  nor  a  funeral  note," 
we  are  told,  when  the  gallant  Sir  John  Moore  was 
interred  on  a  foreign  soil,  but  the  monody  of  Wolfe  has 
sent  down  the  stream  of  time  a  picture  of  that  lonely 
sepulture  which  will  be  felt,  when  the  solemn  pageantry 
of  Napoleon's  funeral  has  passed  into  oblivion.  Gray's 
Scholarship  is  as  a  forgotten  tale,  but  his  Elegy  has 
floated  upon  solemn  wings  through  the  wasting  atmo- 


LYRIC    POETRY.  245 

sphere  of  years.  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  has 
hallowed  Scotland  to  the  imaginative,  more  than  the 
fame  of  all  her  battles  ;  and  Heber's  Missionary  Hymn 
has  done  more  for  the  cause  than  the  pleadings  of  a 
hundred  preachers.  The  poetry  of  the  affections  has 
been  scattered  from  the  lyre  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  around 
the  hearthstones  and  graves  of  two  mighty  nations  ; 
and  the  songs  of  Moore  enliven  the  feast  and  speak  for 
the  lover,  in  the  sequestered  village,  amid  the  halls  of 
pleasure,  and  on  the  lonely  sea. 

The  waterfowl,  thanks  to  an  American  lyrist,  as  he 
skims  the  hazy  air  of  twilight,  now  bears  a  consoling 
truth  to  the  hearts  of  mortals ;  and  the  hero  of  modern 
Greece  has  been  canonized  as  a  saint  of  freedom  by  a 
bard  of  the  New  World. 

Domestic  life  has  gradually  become  the  great  scene 
of  human  experience.  Ambition  aims  at  social  distinc- 
tion, and  has  lost  its  reverence  for  martial  honour.  The 
same  order  of  spirits  that  would  have  sacrificed  every 
thing  for  knightly  preferment,  are  now  content  with 
bearing  off  the  honours  of  a  conversazione.  Men  whose 
earnest  natures  would  have  made  them,  in  the  fourteenth, 
century,  military  leaders  or  bold  na'vigators,  now  emu- 
late the  serener  fame  of  diplomacy  or  letters,  and  "  do 
their  sporting  gentles."  Existence  has  grown  more  and 
more  concentrated ;  effort  has  assumed  an  individual 
aspect ;  comfort  is  estimated  beyond  glory,  and  Chris- 
tianity has  made  men  repose  with  a  new  confidence  on 
the  meeker  virtues  ;  and  thus  the  bold  and  striking  fea- 
tures of  humanity,  upon  which  dramatic  genius  fixes  its 
regard,  and  to  which  the  sympathies  of  ruder  commu- 
21* 


246  THE    OPAL. 

nities  are  strongly  responsive,  have,  little  by  little, 
assumed  a  softer  tone,  and  a  more  delicate  contour. 
The  muscular  limbs  of  Michel  Angelo's  statues  strike 
our  gaze  with  a  startling  effect.  The  old  towers  of  the 
middle  ages  look  mysterious  in  their  mouldering  might. 
The  earnest  eyes  of  the  old  female  portraits,  and  the 
heavy  armour  of  the  warriors  wear  a  most  formidable 
appearance  ;  and  so  the  impassioned  adjurations  of  jeal- 
ousy, the  daring  wickedness  of  ambition,  the  extrava- 
gant fantasies  of  love,  as  drawn  by  Shakspeare,  come 
upon  us  like  the  mighty  voices  of  a  higher  humanity, 
the  half-forgotten  tones  of  a  more  earnest  race. 


CHRIST  WALKING  ON  THE  SEA. 


BY  MRS.  P.  W.  CHANDLER. 

"  Fear  not — it  is  I." 

IN  the  dark  hours,  when  the  shades  of  night 

Had  gathered  gloomily  upon  the  wave, 
And  the  huge  billows'  snowy-crested  light, 

But  seemed  as  torches  pointing  to  the  grave — 
While  the  loud  surge,  which  beat  against  the  shore, 

Gave  utterance  to  its  hoarse  voice  in  the  blast, 
The  weary  mariners  still  plied  the  oar, 

Though  lost  the  hope  to  reach  the  shore  at  last. 

Yet  toiling  on,  they  watched  in  wild  despair 

The  waters,  dashing  by  in  horrid  glee, 
While  their  loud  shrieks,  which  rent  the  troubled  air, 

Were  lost  amidst  the  roaring  of  the  sea — 
As  thus  they  gazed — ere  the  fourth  watch  was  past, — 

Each  cheek  was  blanched  anew  with  awful  dread, 
For,  midst  the  angry  howling  of  the  blast, 

They  saw  a  shadowy  form  the  waters  tread. 


248  THE    OPAL. 

As  yet  it  nearer  drew,  a  softened  light 

Shone  o'er  the  brow,  and  round  th'  angelic  head. 
And  through  the  storming  of  that  fearful  night, 

They  heard  his  voice — "  'Tis  I,  be  not  afraid." 
"  If  it  be  thou,  bid  me  come  unto  thee," 

One  doubting  said,  who  on  the  frail  ship  stood  ; 
And  Jesus  answered,  "  Come  ;" — and  on  the  sea 

He  walked,  and  safely  trod  th'  opposing  flood. 

But  when  he  saw  around  wave  piled  on  wave, 

His  fears  o'ercame  him,  and  he,  sinking,  cried, 
"  Lord,  save  me,  or  I  perish  ;"  and  Christ  gave 

His  hand,  and  raised  him  to  the  vessel's  side. 
So  thou,  my  soul,  in  the  dark  hour  of  doubt, 

Shalt  to  thy  God  for  help  and  mercy  turn, 
Roll  back  the  waves  that  compass  thee  about, 

And  from  his  succour  faith's  sweet  lesson  learn. 


MORNING  ON  THE  WISSAHICCON. 


BY  EDGAR  A.  POE. 


THE  natural  scenery  of  America  has  often  been  con- 
trasted, in  its  general  features  as  well  as  in  detail,  with 
the  landscape  of  the  Old  World — more  especially  of 
Europe — and  not  deeper  has  been  the  enthusiasm,  than 
wide  the  dissension,  of  the  supporters  of  each  region. 
The  discussion  is  one  not  likely  to  be  soon  closed,  for, 
although  much  has  been  said  on  both  sides,  a  world 
more  yet  remains  to  be  said. 

The  most  conspicuous  of  the  British  tourists  who  have 
attempted  a  comparison,  seem  to  regard  our  northern 
and  eastern  seaboard,  comparatively  speaking,  as  all  of 
America,  at  least  as  all  of  the  United  States,  worthy 
consideration.  They  say  little,  because  they  have  seen 
less,  of  the  gorgeous  interior  scenery  of  some  of  our 
western  and  southern  districts — of  the^vast  valley  of 
Louisiana,  for  example, — a  realization  of  the  wildest 
dreams  of  paradise.  For  the  most  part,  these  travellers 
content  themselves  with  a  hasty  inspection  of  the  natural 
lions  of  the  land — the  Hudson,  Niagara,  the  Catskills, 
Harper's  Ferry,  the  lakes  of  New  York,  the  Ohio,  the 


250  THE    OPAL. 

prairies,  and  the  Mississippi.  These,  indeed,  are  objects 
well  worthy  the  contemplation  even  of  him  who  has  just 
clambered  by  the  castellated  Rhine,  or  roamed 

By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone  ; 

but  these  are  not  all  of  which  we  can  boast ;  and, 
indeed,  I  will  be  so  hardy  as  to  assert  that  there  are 
innumerable  quiet,  obscure,  and  scarcely  explored  nooks, 
within  the  limits  of  the  United  States,  that,  by  the  true 
artist,  or  cultivated  lover  of  the  grand  and  beautiful 
amid  the  works  of  God,  will  be  preferred  to  each  and  to 
all  of  the  chronicled  and  better  accredited  scenes  to 
which  I  have  referred. 

In  fact,  the  real  Edens  of  the  land  lie  far  away  from 
the  track  of  our  own  most  deliberate  tourists — how  very 
far,  then,  beyond  the  reach  of  the  foreigner,  who,  having 
made  with  his  publisher  at  home  arrangements  for  a 
certain  amount  of  comment  upon  America,  to  be  fur- 
nished in  a  stipulated  period,  can  hope  to  fulfil  his  agree- 
ment in  no  other  manner  than  by  steaming  it,  memo- 
randum-book in  hand,  through  only  the  most  beaten 
thoroughfares  of  the  country  ! 

I  mentioned,  just  above,  the  valley  of  Louisiana.  Of 
all  extensive  areas  of  natural  loveliness,  this  is  perhaps 
the  most  lovely.  No  fiction  has  approached  it.  The 
most  gorgeous  imagination  might  derive  suggestions 
from  its  exuberant  beauty.  And  beauty  is,  indeed,  its 
sole  character.  It  has  little,  or  rather  nothing,  of  the 
sublime.  Gentle  undulations  of  soil,  interwreathed 
with  fantastic  crystallic  streams,  banked  by  flowery 


MORNING  ON    THE    WISSAHICCON.  251 

slopes,  and  backed  by  a  forest  vegetation,  gigantic, 
glossy,  multicoloured,  sparkling  with  gay  birds  and 
burthened  with  perfume — these  features  make  up,  in  the 
vale  of  Louisiana,  the  most  voluptuous  natural  scenery 
upon  earth. 

But,  even  of  this  delicious  region,  the  sweeter  portions 
are  reached  only  by  bypaths.  Indeed,  in  America 
generally,  the  traveller  who  would  behold  the  finest 
landscapes,  must  seek  them  not  by  the  railroad,  nor  by 
the  steamboat,  nor  by  the  stage-coach,  nor  in  his  private 
carriage,  nor  yet  even  on  horseback — but  on  foot.  He 
must  walk,  he  must  leap  ravines,  he  must  risk  his  neck 
among  precipices,  or  he  must  leave  unseen  the  truest, 
the  richest,  and  most  unspeakable  glories  of  the  land. 

Now  in  the  greater  portion  of  Europe  no  such  ne- 
cessity exists.  In  England  it  exists  not  at  all.  The 
merest  dandy  of  a  tourist  may  there  visit  every  nook 
worth  visiting  without  detriment  to  his  silk  stockings  ; 
so  thoroughly  known  are  all  points  of  interest,  and  so 
well-arranged  are  the  means  of  attaining  them.  This 
consideration  has  never  been  allowed  its  due  weight,  in 
comparisons  of  the  natural  scenery  of  the  Old  and  New 
Worlds.  The  entire  loveliness  of  the  former  is  collated 
with  only  the  most  noted,  and  with  by  no  means  the 
most  eminent  items  in  the  general  loveliness  of  the 
latter. 

River  scenery  has,  unquestionably,  within  itself,  all 
the  main  elements  of  beauty,  and,  time  out  of  mind,  has 
been  the  favourite  theme  of  the  poet.  But  much  of  this 
fame  is  attributable  to  the  predominance  of  travel  in 
fluvial  over  that  in  mountainous  districts.  In  the  same 


252  THE    OPAL. 

way,  large  rivers,  because  usually  highways,  have,  in 
all  countries,  absorbed  an  undue  share  of  admiration. 
They  are  more  observed,  and,  consequently,  made  more 
the  subject  of  discourse,  than  less  important,  but  often 
more  interesting  streams. 

A  singular  exemplification  of  my  remarks  upon  this 
head  may  be  found  in  the  Wissahiccon,  a  brook,  (for 
more  it  can  scarcely  be  called,)  which  empties  itself  into 
the  Schuylkill,  about  six  miles  westward  of  Philadelphia. 
Now  the  Wissahiccon  is  of  so  remarkable  a  loveliness 
that,  were  it  flowing  in  England,  it  would  be  the  theme 
of  every  bard,  and  the  common  topic  of  every  tongue, 
if,  indeed,  its  banks  were  not  parcelled  off  in  lots,  at  an 
exorbitant  price,  as  building-sites  for  the  villas  of  the 
opulent.  Yet  it  is  only  within  a  very  few  years  that 
any  one  has  more  than  heard  of  the  Wissahiccon,  while 
the  broader  and  more  navigable  water  into  which  it 
flows,  has  been  long  celebrated  as  one  of  the  finest 
specimens  of  American  river  scenery.  The  Schuylkill, 
whose  beauties  have  been  much  exaggerated,  and  whose 
banks,  at  least  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Philadelphia, 
are  marshy  like  those  of  the  Delaware,  is  not  at  all 
comparable,  as  an  object  of  picturesque  interest,  with 
the  more  humble  and  less  notorious  rivulet  of  which  we 
speak. 

It  was  not  until  Fanny  Kemble,  in  her  droll  book 
about  the  United  States,  pointed  out  to  the  Philadelphians 
the  rare  loveliness  of  a  stream  which  lay  at  their  own 
doors,  that  this  loveliness  was  more  than  suspected  by 
a  few  adventurous  pedestrians  of  the  vicinity.  But,  the 
"  Journal"  having  opened  all  eyes,  the  Wissahiccon,  to 


MORNING    ON    THE    WISSAHICCON.  253 

a  certain  extent,  rolled  at  once  into  notoriety.  I  say 
"  to  a  certain  extent,"  for,  in  fact,  the  true  beauty  of  the 
stream  lies  far  above  the  route  of  the  Philadelphian 
picturesque-hunters,  who  rarely  proceed  farther  than  a 
mile  or  two  above  the  mouth  of  the  rivulet — for  the  very 
excellent  reason  that  here  the  carriage-road  stops.  I 
would  advise  the  adventurer  who  would  behold  its  finest 
points  to  take  the  Ridge  Road,  running  westwardly 
from  the  city,  and,  having  reached  the  second  lane 
beyond  the  sixth  mile-stone,  to  follow  this  lane  to  its 
termination.  He  will  thus  strike  the  Wissahiccon,  at 
one  of  its  best  reaches,  and,  in  a  skiff,  or  by  clambering 
along  its  banks,  he  can  go  up  or  down  the  stream,  as 
bests  suits  his  fancy,  and  in  either  direction  will  meet  his 
reward. 

I  have  already  said,  or  should  have  said,  that  the 
brook  is  narrow.  Its  banks  are  generally,  indeed  al- 
most universally,  precipitous,  and  consist  of  high  hills, 
clothed  with  noble  shrubbery  near  the  water,  and  crowned 
at  a  greater  elevation,  with  some  of  the  most  magnificent 
forest  trees  of  America,  among  which  stands  conspicuous 
the  liriodendron  tulipiferum.  The  immediate  shores, 
however,  are  of  granite,  sharply-defined  or  moss-covered, 
against  which  the  pellucid  water  lolls  in  its  gentle  flow, 
as  the  blue  waves  of  the  Mediterranean  upon  the  steps 
of  her  palaces  of  marble.  Occasionally  in  front  of  the 
cliffs,  extends  a  small  definite  plateau  of  richly  herbaged 
land,  affording  the  most  picturesque  position  for  a  cottage 
and  garden  which  the  richest  imagination  could  conceive. 
The  windings  of  the  stream  are  many  and  abrupt,  as  is 
22 


254  THE    OPAL. 

usually  the  case  where  banks  are  precipitous,  and  thus 
the  impression  conveyed  to  the  voyager's  eye,  as  he  pro- 
ceeds, is  that  of  an  endless  succession  of  infinitely  varied 
small  lakes,  or,  more  pro]>erly  speaking,  tarns.  The 
Wissahiccon,  however,  should  be  visited,  not  like  "  fair 
Melrose,"  by  moonlight,  or  even  in  cloudy  weather,  but 
amid  the  brightest  glare  of  a  noonday  sun  ;  for  the 
narrowness  of  the  gorge  through  which  it  flows,  the 
height  of  the  hills  on  either  hand,  and  the  density  of  the 
foliage,  conspire  to  produce  a  gloominess,  if  not  an  abso- 
lute dreariness  of  effect,  which,  unless  relieved  by  a 
bright  general  light,  detracts  from  the  mere  beauty  of 
the  scene. 

Not  long  ago  I  visited  the  stream  by  the  route  de- 
scribed, and  spent  the  better  part  of  a  sultry  day  in 
floating  in  a  skiff  upon  its  bosom.  The  heat  gradually 
overcame  me,  and,  resigning  myself  to  the  influence  of 
the  scenes  and  of  the  weather,  and  of  the  gently  moving 
current,  I  sank  into  a  half  slumber,  during  which  my 
imagination  revelled  in  visions  of  the  Wissahiccon  of 
ancient  days — of  the  "  good  old  days"  when  the  Demon 
of  the  Engine  was  not,  when  pic-nics  were  undreamed 
of,  when  "  water  privileges"  were  neither  bought  nor 
sold,  and  when  the  red  man  trod  alone,  with  the  elk, 
upon  the  ridges  that  now  towered  above.  And,  while 
gradually  these  conceits  took  possession  of  my  mind, 
the  lazy  brook  had  borne  me,  inch  by  inch,  around  one 
promontory  and  within  full  view  of  another  that  bounded 
the  prospect  at  the  distance  of  forty  or  fifty  yards.  It 
was  a  steep  rocky  cliff,  abutting  far  into  the  stream,  and 


MORNING    ON    THE    WISSAHICCON.  255 

presenting  much  more  of  the  Salvator  character  than 
any  portion  of  the  shore  hitherto  passed.  What  I  saw 
upon  this  cliff,  although  surely  an  object  of  very  extra- 
ordinary nature,  the  place  and  season  considered,  at 
first  neither  startled  nor  amazed  me — so  thoroughly  and 
appropriately  did  it  chime  in  with  the  half-slumberous  fan- 
cies that  enwrapped  me.  I  saw,  or  dreamed  that  I  saw, 
standing  upon  the  extreme  verge  of  the  precipice,  with 
neck  outstretched,  with  ears  erect,  and  the  whole  atti- 
tude indicative  of  profound  and  melancholy  inquisitive- 
ness,  one  of  the  oldest  and  boldest  of  those  identical  elks 
which  had  been  coupled  with  the  red  men  of  my  vision. 
I  say  that,  for  a  few  moments,  this  apparition  neither 
startled  nor  amazed  me.  During  this  interval  my  whole 
soul  was  bound  up  in  intense  sympathy  alone.  I  fan- 
cied the  elk  repining,  not  less  than  wondering,  at  the 
manifest  alterations  for  the  worse,  wrought  upon  the 
brook  and  its  vicinage,  even  within  the  last  few  years, 
by  the  stern  hand  of  the  utilitarian.  But  a  slight 
movement  of  the  animal's  head  at  once  dispelled  the 
dreaminess  which  invested  me,  and  aroused  me  to  a  full 
sense  of  the  novelty  of  the  adventure.  I  arose  upon 
one  knee  within  the  skiff,  and,  while  I  hesitated  whether 
to  stop  my  career,  or  let  myself  float  nearer  to  the 
object  of  my  wonder,  I  heard  the  words  "  hist !  hist !" 
ejaculated  quickly  but  cautiously,  from  the  shrubbery 
overhead.  In  an  instant  afterwards,  a  negro  emerged 
from  the  thicket,  putting  aside  the  bushes  with  care,  and 
treading  stealthily.  He  bore  in  one  hand  a  quantity  of 
salt,  and,  holding  it  towards  the  elk,  gently  yet  steadily 
approached.  The  noble  animal,  although  a  little  flut- 


256  THE    OPAL. 

tered,  made  no  attempt  at  escape.  The  negro  advanced  ; 
offered  the  salt ;  and  spoke  a  few  words  of  encourage- 
ment or  conciliation.  Presently,  the  elk  bowed  and 
stamped,  and  then  lay  quietly  down  and  was  secured 
with  a  halter. 

Thus  ended  my  romance  of  the  elk.  It  was  a  pet  of 
great  age  and  very  domestic  habits,  and  belonged  to  an 
English  family  occupying  a  villa  in  the  vicinity. 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  EASE. 

IMITATION  OF  THE  SIXTEENTH  ODE  OF  THE  SECOND 
BOOK  OF  HORACE. 

BY  THE  TRANSLATOR  OF  "  SCHILLER'S  TRAGEDIES." 

FOR  ease  the  harassed  seaman  sighs, 
When  cloudy  night  involves  the  skies, 

Nor  moon  nor  stars  appear, 
When  fierce  round  Sunium's  howling  steep 
He  sees  conflicting  tempests  sweep, 

And  deems  destruction  near. 

For  ease  the  roving  sons  of  war, 
The  wild  Croatian  and  Hussar, 

Midst  fields  of  carnage  sigh ; 
For  ease,  a  blessing  never  sold, 
Which  not  Peruvia's  hidden  gold, 

Not  India's  gems  can  buy. 

For  neither  wealth  nor  power  combined, 
Will  calm  those  tumults  of  the  mind, 
Which  force  the  wretch  to  roam, — 
22* 


258  THE    OPAL. 

Will  smooth  the  wrinkled  brow  of  care, 

Or  chase  the  thousand  griefs,  that  spare 

Not  e'en  the  monarch's  dome. 

How  happy  he,  how  truly  blest, 
Who,  of  paternal  fields  possessed, 

Nor  needs  nor  covets  more ; 
In  active  virtue  fleets  his  day, 
In  peace  his  night,  while  far  away 

Lite's  storms  unheeded  roar. 

Poor  insects  of  the  passing  hour, 

Why  do  we  toil,  through  pomp  and  power, 

For  happiness  below  ? 
Why  fly  for  ease  to  distant  plains, 
Whilst  still  within  our  bosom  reigns 

Our  bosom's  deadliest  foe  1 

The  pangs  of  conscience  can  we  shun  1 
Alas !  we  might  as  soon  outrun 

The  lightning's  winged  speed ; 
Still  in  the  track  of  vice  and  pride, 
Remorse  ascends  the  galley's  side, — 

O'ertakes  the  flying  steed. 

The  soul  whom  reason's  dictates  sway, 
Enjoys  the  sunshine  of  the  day, 

Nor  pines  at  distant  ill, 
Assured  that  sorrows  are  his  share, 
That  man's  best  state  is  mixed  with  care, 

By  heaven's  unerring  will. 

Great fell  in  manhood's  bloom, 

Whilst ,  reversing  nature's  doom, 

Yet  lingers  on  the  stage, 


THE  PURSUIT    OF    KNOWLEDGE.  259 

And  whilst  the  boon's  denied  to  thee, 
Perhaps  all-bounteous  Heaven  to  me 
Extends  a  peaceful  age. 

For  thee  what  various  joys  combine  ! 
Power,  talents,  honours,  all  are  thine, 

Hereditary  wealth ; 
For  me — an  humble  lot  will  please, 
An  honest  name,  domestic  ease, 

Friends,  competence,  and  health. 


FAITH. 


BY  WILLIAM  H.  BURLEIGH. 


I. 


RESTLESS  and  oft  complaining1,  on  his  bed 
Tossed  a  fair  child,  as  burned  along  his  veins 
The  fire  of  fever  with  consuming  pains ; 
And  ever  and  anon  he  raised  his  head 
From  the  hot  pillow,  and  beseeching  said — 
"  Water !  oh,  give  me  water  !"     By  his  side 
The  healer  stood,  and  tenderly  replied — 
"  Wait  yet  awhile — this  potion  take  instead." 

"  No,"  cried  the  child — "  'tis  poison  and  will  kill !" 
His  father  took  the  cup — "  My  son,  be  sure 
This  is  a  nauseous  draught,  but  it  may  cure — 

Will  my  boy  drink  it  ?"    Then  said  he,  "  I  will— 
I'm  not  afraid  'tis  poison  note — I  know 
You  would  not  give  it,  father,  were  it  so." 


n. 

Oh,  trusting  childhood  !     I  would  learn  of  thee 
This  lesson  of  pure  faith,  and  to  my  heart 
So  bind  it  that  it  never  may  depart — 

Therefore  shalt  thou  henceforth  my  teacher  be  ; 


FAITH.  261 

For  in  thy  perfect  trust  the  sin  I  see 

Of  my  own  doubts  and  fears.     The  cup  of  life, 
Drugged  with  the  bitterness  of  tears  and  strife, 

Shall  I  not  drink  it  when  'tis  proffered  me  1 
Yes — for  'tis  mingled  by  a  Father's  hand 

And  given  in  love — for,  rightly  understood, 

Trials  and  pains  tend  ever  to  our  good, 
Healing  the  soul  that  for  the  better  land 

Thirsts  with  a  deathless  longing !     Welcome  pain, 

Whose  end  is  bliss  and  everlasting  gain  ! 


PRAYER. 


BY  THE  REV.  S.  F.  SMITH. 

THE  breezes  are  cold  as  from  Cedron  they  flow 
And  over  Gethsemane  quivering  they  go  — 
But  Jesus  regards  not  the  chill  of  the  air, 
He  came  to  Gethsemane's  garden  for  prayer ! 

The  heavens  are  covered  with  wild-looking  clouds, 
And  darkness  unwonted  the  soft  twilight  shrouds — 
But  Jesus  beholds  not  the  terrors  they  wear, 
He  came  to  Gethsemane's  garden  for  prayer ! 

The  hours  of  the  night-shade  pass  sadly  away, 
And  long  is  the  time  to  the  dawning  of  day — 
But  though  weary  the  hours  he  lingers  still  there, — 
He  came  to  Gethsemane's  garden  for  prayer ! 

Thus  Jesus  prepared  for  that  ocean  of  wo 
That  soon  on  his  soul  in  its  wrath  was  to  flow — 
The  dark  scenes  of  pain  he  was  strengthened  to  bear, 
He  was  heard  when  those  hours  he  devoted  to  prayer ! 

My  soul,  when  the  tempest  of  sorrow  is  high, 
O'erwhelmed  with  thine  anguish,  to  God  lift  thy  cry — 
Oh  !  yield  not  thy  thoughts  to  the  woes  of  despair, 
For  God  ever  hears  and  will  answer  thy  prayer ! 


THE  APRIL  BIRTHDAY. 


BY  H.  T.  TUCKERMAN. 

DARK  clouds  my  natal  morning  overcast, 
And  sullen  lay  each  upland,  grove,  and  field, 

The  tender  germs  shrunk  from  the  chilly  blast, 
And  on  the  swollen  buds  the  mist  congealed. 

But  noontide  came, — and  from  their  vapoury  shroud 
Mountain  and  streamlet  gloriously  broke, 

The  verdure  freshened,  radiant  grew  the  cloud, 
And  nature  smiled  as  if  her  Maker  spoke. 

Effulgent  skies  the  landscape  now  unfold, 
To  cheer  each  budding  leaf  and  tendril  pale, 

While  blades  of  herbage  pierce  the  clammy  ground, 
And  dead  stalks  rustle  in  the  vernal  gale. 

On  the  peach  boughs  how  delicate  a  bloom 

With  summer  hopes  the  peasant's  heart  beguiles ! 

While  piny  odours  from  his. quiet  room 
Lure  the  glad  student  to  the  forest  aisles. 

And  breezes  warm  the  prisoned  earth  release, 
Bidding  her  throw  her  last  cold  chain  aside, 

And  won  by  April's  sweet  and  fond  caprice, 
Deck  her  wan  bosom  like  a  virgin  bride. 


264  THE    OPAL. 

Be  thou  an  omen  of  my  future  years ! 

As  pleasant  sunshine  cometh  after  rain, 
Let  smiles  of  hope  yet  triumph  over  tears. 

And  love  illume  the  gloominess  of  pain  ! 

And  as  beneath  the  elemental  strife 
The  seed  doth  ripen  into  fruit  mature, 

So  may  the  shade  and  sunshine  of  my  life 
Bring  truth  to  guide,  and  wisdom  to  endure  ! 

And  when  earth's  brooding  clouds  shall  disappear, 
And  all  the  mists  of  time  are  rolled  away, 

May  light  eternal  from  a  higher  sphere 
Break  on  my  vision  like  this  April  day  ! 


THE  END. 


UiQSB   LlBRAfli 


, 


